


Tender Moments

by PlainPaper



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Game of Thrones Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-04-24 03:44:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 43,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19165144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainPaper/pseuds/PlainPaper
Summary: Her voice is soft, meant for just his ears but clads with a sense of urgency, “Have you told her?”He blames his slow response to his sorry state before he blurts out a short no. Sansa nods, satisfied with his response before she speaks, “Heed my advice, Jon. Do not tell her who you are until you are sure if the choices are between you and the throne, she would choose you.”*Follow season 8 closely with few tweaks, changes here and there. Meant to show the progress between Jon and Sansa's relationship and how they both grow from experiences. I want it to end differently.*Completed





	1. Stitches

Jon could barely open his eyes, but he forces himself to make sense of his surroundings. He is in his own room, the window closes and the only source of light is coming from the hearth, or is there a candle near his bed? He could not be sure. His eyes heavy, his body even heavier accompanied with constant dull aching, yet sharp pains could be felt woven through his skin intermittently throughout the length of his arm. Slowly, he turns his head, trying to identify the source of it, only to be greeted with a very familiar view.

_Sansa._

How many times has he caught glimpses of her stitching? Countless. In fact, it seems to be the one thing that defines Sansa. Ever since she was a young girl, he has seen her in this position- head down, hands busy with the occasional frowns that seem to appear lesser each time he manages to steal a look. Every now and then she inspects her stitching, finger gently prodding the seam on his skin before quietly blowing the wound – as mothers do to her child’s scraped knees as if breathing magic to seal, to heal his wound.

His arm might have been wounded severely by the Night King, yet his skin tingles with each gentle blow. It is cold and soothing.

It warms his still beating heart.

Now, Sansa doesn’t look like her usual self. Hair pulled back tight, plaited behind her. Few tendrils managed to escape, courtesy of what he assumes her direct refusal to stop and take a breath while making sure everyone is tended accordingly. The war is over. The war between the living and the supposedly undead is over. _Finally._ For a moment he could taste the glory that comes with winning but a moment later it vanishes. He has spent a good part of his life trying to convince others about the threat, rallying others to cast aside their differences and absolve a much dangerous threat together and now, the living is _living._

What is left for him now that his fight is over?

_The Iron Throne._

A voice whispers from within. He shudders, from the pain resonating throughout the length of his body or from the revelation, he could not be sure of. He has kept the truth of his lineage to himself. _It was not proper_ , he convinced himself back then before the fight. Not when they had all prepared to die fighting. He is Aegon Targaryen and what differences will it make should they fail to survive in the first place?

But he survives. And now suddenly it matters again.

His attention returns to Sansa, still very much lost in stitching the gaping wound at the length of his arm, fixing what’s left of him.

This quiet moment between them two reminds him of their reunion, her shoulders heavy from all the burden she had been fed with forcefully. The time spent in Castle Black has proven she is now a different person. Or perhaps she is never the vain girl she was described as back then. She was a child. It would not be fair to sentence her character with an absolute judgment from the very few memories he had of her. The only thing he knows about her now is how careful she guards the tapestry that made up her life. Not a single word is shared of what really happened to her behind the walls of King’s Landing nor Winterfell. He is not privy to her secrets, he knows it is never his right to know yet he could not help but prays for her sake that the wall she builds to contain her pain will be enough to shield her.

Even when he knows no wall will ever be strong enough to stop anything.

He could feel the needle piercing his skin, the soft tug inching the separated skin together to hold what is left from his fight with the Night King. He remembers not much from it, but he remembers the intensity, and how when he was so close to losing, he pulled himself up, denying the Night King what he had craved for, yelling at himself to fight for what’s left of Winterfell. At the precipice of final death, he fought for just three -for Arya and her lost innocence, for Bran that has been made hollow, carved from the inside to make room for all the knowledge he is now supposed to carry, for Sansa, who is consistently forced to be the ultimate witness when the world crumbles around her. He almost lost, but Arya made the final leap, delivered the final blow that ended the cold for good.

_Arya…my little sister Arya._

He could not help but grin as he relieves the moment, letting it be played over and over in his foggy mind.

A groan escaping his lip put an end to it. He feels the final tug as Sansa made away with the leftover thread. Her eyes finally rest on him, eyes filled with worry yet also tinge with relief. She stood up, her hands are now a clear view to him, covered with blood and grimes. She offered him a gentle smile as she washed her hands-free from the stench,

“Up so soon Jon. Sam told me the drink should have put you down to rest for at least four days.” Her voice laces with forced lightness as she wrings a cloth before coming back to his side. She runs the damp piece up and down his newly stitched arm, cleaning it with caution, trying to minimize his winces.

He tried to speak but his voice refuses to make an appearance. He clears his throat and begins again.

“Where is….? What now?” that is all he manages to croak out.

“You are in your room. We win. Your Queen is with her small council, possibly demanding for what’s left to fight for her cause.”

He looked hurt, somehow. Sansa wondered if her words are delivered harsh or the realization that the woman he loves has chosen to be away has added more pain to him for she wishes not to delay his recovery. She observes his offended look before she settles with the needs to placate his wounded feelings.

“She did ask for you,” her voice falls to the familiar soothing whisper. Eyes warm despite the blue, trying to make peace with the presence of a foreign Queen in her home. “She stopped by whenever she could. Even insist to tend to you herself. But stitching is not her forte and she wants you to heal, not butchered by her questionable sewing skill. She left you at my mercy. Grudgingly, if I may add.” A grin appears on her lips as she gently placed his hand back on the bed after she covers it with a new, clean piece of cloth.

He sees through her choice. Putting aside her hurt feelings with the invasion just so that his heart would be at peace. She tries her best heeding his plead to not openly make his Queen her enemy. Even when she could not do such, she tries to respect the Dragon Queen as his beloved.  

_So thoughtful. So kind._

But his concern is more on the prospect of yet another war and not over the trivial matter of whether or not the Dragon Queen stops by to look after him herself.

“This will leave a scar albeit a neat one,” she continues to speak, filling the room with chatters to ease Jon’s feelings. Her eyes never leaving his wound as she lifts his arm closer to herself to clean the drying blood. “I remember when you boys snickered when I spent hours stitching. Tell me now who’s putting you back together again?”

“Aye my lady, you did.” Jon could not stop himself from returning her light teasing.

Sansa chuckles before her eyes linger on the scars littered all over his exposed body. Jon could feel the blood rushing to his face as he struggles to pull the fur to cover his body. His eyes wander everywhere but never on Sansa but when their gazes finally threaded together, he could feel an immense understanding radiating from her. She pulls the fur, covering him before she speaks softly,

“Scars are good. It means you live. It means you heal. It means you survive.” The way she says it makes him wonder if the words are meant for him or are they a mantra she repeats to herself when the ghost of her past chooses to linger close.  

At that moment, he feels compelled to thank her. He has nothing worthy to offer because to him he is still just Jon- who craves for a family yet crowned as King that has now betrayed the trust by bending his knees. He swallows his guilt all while watching Sansa picking up her things, ready to leave him to rest.

_Is it odd that I don’t want her to leave just yet?_

He scrambles to hold her hand, lacing his fingers through hers before he croaks out his gratuity – in the form of a secret he has shared to no one. 

\---

He observes her carefully as she swallows the truth he has spilled earnestly. Her back straightens, as she mulls over the fact laid out in open between them. Her expression does not give away any clue - she has become too good in masking her feelings.

It worries him somehow.

He wants her to speak, to tell him that it doesn’t matter. To tell him that he would always be her family. He waits with bated breath for any response and just when he decides to prod for one, she stirs from her deep thought. Her gaze is thrown quickly to the door before she frees her hair from the neat plait, half standing before she leans close, too close to his face, letting her hair becomes a shield should the door fails to play its part.

He is stunned with the quick movements, flustered with the close proximity, almost drown gratefully in her piercing blue eyes all while a small part of him wonders,

_How could she smell like flowers when its always winter around here?_

Her voice is soft, meant for just his ears but clads with a sense of urgency, “Have you told her?”

He blames his slow response to his sorry state before he blurts out a short no. Sansa nods, satisfied with his response before she speaks, “Heed my advice, Jon. Do not tell her who you are until you are sure if the choices are between you and the throne, she would choose you.”

He is taken aback with her accusatory tone. He wants her to explain herself, but he could hear the hinges of the door and just as quickly Sansa pulls herself away, far from him, gathering her things before she offers Daenerys a curtsy, hastily leaving the room with the excuse of overseeing others’ injuries.

\---

Sansa’s words reel over his head. It confuses him, raises questions within but by the end of the night, he is sure of one thing.

When Sansa blows over his wound, it was cool and soothing. When Daenerys does it, he feels as if her breath would melt his skin, melt Sansa’s careful stitches and he flinches away from the Mother of Dragons.

\---


	2. Needle

The festiveness of the hall as they celebrated their win against the dead has managed to exclude the Dragon Queen. She looks out of place as she searches for her trusted advisors, exchanging uncomfortable glances as they internalize the fact that the North is not their home, could never be their home. The thunderous laughter, the booming voices as they speak across the tables are all for Jon and for the Northerners alone.

A private celebration that the Dragon Queen has decided to join then wonders why she feels alienated.

Sansa sees through her discomfort through her stance, through her overpolite toasts as she sat far from the main table, observing Daenerys Targaryen through the rim of her goblet. She nods politely to the lords around her, speaks few words with Sandor before she moves away when he chooses to talk about the one thing she swears never to address again. She tries to understand why Jon chooses to kneel. She tries to search herself, why she is so mad at his decision.

She tells herself it is because the North deserves to be free. The North has chosen its King. The North has bled, drenches in redness too potent to be buried in the ground as they all kneel over spilled blood to a foreign Queen that knows not the values uphold here, of honor and loyalty.   

Another part of her offers a simpler explanation: she is jealous. Envious with the fact that Jon has returned with another.

She shakes her head at that realization, tipping the goblet as she empties the exquisite wine. It is not new that malicious whisper. She felt it in Castle Black and she buries it deep, covering it with excuses of pure relief of seeing another familiar face, a family. She blames the Lannisters. She blames the time spent with them as the source that has altered her sense of right and wrong. But now? Is it malicious still when Jon is never her half brother to begin with?

Her mind wonders at possibilities but she shoots it down with another gulp of wine poured generously by one of the maidservants. She raises her goblet at the same level as her head in the direction of his Queen, toasting her victory from afar.

_For you. For being loved by a good, kind, honorable man._

She gulps the content of her goblet, slamming it down on the table before she left the scene. The wine warms her enough, but not to a point where she loses her dignity.

_Not as much as Cersei drinks._

She grins at the thought.

\--

She walks along the corridor, her fingers fluttering over the wall, genuinely relief at the familiar coldness radiating from her home. She walks with purpose. She has long steered away from her torture chamber courtesy of Ramsay Bolton but tonight she wants to pray. Not to the Old Gods nor the New Ones. She wants to pray for her lost soul, trapped forever in that room with no escape. Ever.

She stands by the door, her hands tremble by the mere sight of it. She could hear her own screams reverberating through the wall and she shudders, second-guessing her intent. Her breaths frantic as memories come flooding through her veins.  Just a moment ago she is so sure of her decision but now she wants to bolt away hoping that someone would tear down that part of her home, relieving her from any reminder of him. She forces in a deep cold breath, steeling herself because if she does not pray for herself, who else will?

She wants to kneel, hands fold together, praying but the thought of what had happened behind the door as she was forced to kneel freeze her. She stands there, whispering to her piece of soul that dies behind the door.

_You are never his._

_You are a Stark._

_You are your Mother’s and Father’s daughter._

_You are Robb’s sister._

_You are Arya’s sister._

_You are Bran’s sister._

_You are Rickon’s sister._

_You are Jon’s._

She places her left cheek to the wooden door, her right hand flattens onto the surface, beckoning for her broken soul to mend. So deep she is into her prayers she does not realize his steps behind her. Only when he stands so near, she could feel the warmth radiating from his body that her eyes widen in fears as she flinches away from him.

“Jon…” She half swallows his name in her rapid breathing, shock yet relief as she realizes it is just Jon. Jon is kind, Jon is good.

Jon is _hers._

Jon, on the other hand, is forced to take a few steps back, leaving room between them as he takes in her ragged breaths and her eyes that are filled with fears she has always managed to push aside, never allowing it to be part of her. He follows her to inquire about her last advice, a warning he decides but seeing her like this, tears threatening to fall freely, he is overcome with this tremendous urge to protect her, to reign her into his embrace and let her stay there as long as she needs to recover.

He extends his arms slowly, meaning well not to frighten her with any sudden movements, palms open, offering what little he could to ease the raging storm within her. She wipes her face free from any trace of tears and fears before she lifts her head, eyes straight through his soul. She takes his hands gently in hers, squeezing his hands for few seconds, basking in the rare offering she has been blessed with before she speaks quietly,

“Careful with your stitches Jon. You don’t want it to bleed again.” Her smile is fleeting as she gently pushes his arms back to his side, leaving his palms void from her touch.

Jon shakes his head at her small reminder. Here he is, trying to comfort her but she skillfully turns the table and makes it all about him.

_She can be so exasperating at times._

Her selflessness rubs him wrong somehow. He wants to help, wants her to heal but she refuses. He wonders if Arya has gotten better luck, but Sansa has sealed away her secrets, and Arya too has failed to pry over her sister’s wounded past.

They stand there awkwardly, in the presence of each other, not knowing how to proceed after such an encounter.

She makes the move, closing the distance between them, her pale hand ghosting over his cheek before she rubs her thumb over it. A silent thank you, even when neither knows how to begin. To her, his presence alone is a blessing. It calms her frantic heartbeat. With him, she always feels safe. She offers him a gracious smile, “Goodnight Jon. Have a good rest,” before she turns her back onto him, heading to her chamber.

A soft tug on her hand stops her and she looks at him questioningly.

Jon looks hard at her, eyes filled with unbounded concern, waiting for something to give away, a reason for him to stall her departure. His eyes darted to the high neck of her dress, beautiful, but it is not the embroidery that catches his attention. It is the blooming red that taints the grey.

He frowns at it, eyes looking at Sansa who appears to be clueless as to why he is reacting the way he is. His lips parted; the question is already at the edge of his teeth when he hears the raucous laughter coming closer to where they are standing. Sansa hears it too and she tries to pull herself free, but Jon grabs her wrist gently yet tighter, not giving her the option to escape as he opens the door and pulls her away from being discovered by others.

He shuts the door behind him, the laughter ebbing away. As soon as he turns, he sees Sansa, eyes wild, her gaze raking all over the room before she runs to the window, thrusting it opens letting the cool breeze envelopes the otherwise stifling room. Her body slumps onto the ground, her forehead against the wall, eyes closed as she bits her bottom lip hard, stopping herself from reaching out for help. Jon is alarmed with the unexpected reaction, but he knows not to touch her without her consent. He kneels next to her, cooing her with the same words repeated over and over.

“You are safe Sansa. You are home. You are safe. I am here. I am here. Your Jon is here.”

Gently, he places his hands over her shoulders, motioning for her to take deep breathes meant to expel the troubles within. He looks around, trying to fathom what could be the reason behind her reaction. It is a normal chamber meant for guest. Barely used. He returns his attention to her, wanting to lift her up to lie on the bed but she grasps his sleeves sturdily, shaking her head no.  

Jon sits in front of her, waiting patiently for her to recover. He wants to believe that he knows her enough to allow her to search for her strengths within before he offers her help. When she finally opens her eyes, Jon extends his rough palms close enough to touch her neck before he whispers, “May I?”

Sansa only now realizes the certain slickness bleeding out from her neck, but Jon takes her hesitation as a yes and slips his fingers inside the soft material of her dress. Sansa draws in a sharp breath as Jon pulls out a small piece of cloth, now drenches with blood. He looks at the cloth momentarily, trying to understand before he returns his gaze to her, his fingers fidgeting with the top button of her dress to have a clear look at the wound.

Once he is sure the wound is not harmful enough, just a flesh wound, not too deep but enough to ignite this mad fury within him, he wipes it as clean as he could with his sleeve. Sansa struggles to be released, embarrassed she is under his care. He sighs frustratingly, his eyes trained on her, his question rumbling deep from his chest before he asks, “Who did this to you? I will kill him.”

His voice is low, rough with edges sharp enough to kill the perpetrator.

“Then you will have to kill me.” She smirks, masking her pain like she always does.

“Tell me.” He pleads.

Sansa adjusts her dress, covering the wound from his sharp eyes that still lingers on it. It is as if it hurts him more than it hurts her. She moves to lean against the wall, her legs pulled closer to her chest, her hands intertwined together on her knees.

Jon moves too, mimicking her position, giving her much needed space, not intending to force the answer out of her.

“We were in the crypt,” She begins slowly, giving context to what propels her to run a blade over her own neck. “The dead were rising. It seems death is the only option, one way or another and I made the choice to die with as much of myself I can bring with me, saving you, saving Arya from the horrible choice of having to kill me.”

Her hands fall to her side and Jon wastes not a second as he grabs it firmly within his palm.

Sansa looks down, allowing herself this much from a man marked by another woman. She tilts her head to one side, granting herself a muted gaze from Jon.

Seeing his brows mushed together birth this urge to lighten up the tense atmosphere.

“You’ve seen how the wights hack people to death. I want to die with a neat wound. I want to die prettily.” She raises her eyebrows at Jon, trying her best to focus only on him and not the secret lies within that very chamber.

Jon scoffs, eliciting a peal of small laughter from her too.

“Thank the Gods you are hopeless with weapons.” He pulls his hand to his lips, kissing it cautiously. “What would be of Arya, of Bran…of me...if we have to burn you with the rest?”

Sansa notices the pause. She scoots closer, resting her head against him as she repeats his words,

“Thank the Gods I am hopeless with weapons.”

\--

Moments pass as Jon tries to coax more stories of her past from her. But she keeps her mouth sealed, feigning sleep whenever he tries to maneuver the conversation back to her. He sighs loudly, realizing that she would rather keep all her stories to herself. He kisses her head, hoping that she will always remember that she is loved.

“Why did you seek for me?” She mumbles through her fur, pulling it closer to brave the chilly wind, guesting through the open window.

“I want to ask about your warning the other day.”

“Is it not obvious?” Sansa moves away from him, now kneeling while looking at him earnestly. Jon stares back at her, waiting for a thorough explanation.

“Oh Jon…” she laments to herself before she begins. “Despite the Unsullied, despite her dragons, you, Aegon Targaryen has one thing she could never have.”

She looks at him, guiding him slowly, wanting him to fill in the blanks. _Why can’t he see it?_

The silence between them stretches before she answers her own question haughtily.

“A cock. That’s it. She could have everything, but you are the last male heir. Jeoffrey, a monster, could have claimed the throne should he have Targaryen blood just because he is a male claimant. Do you understand? You have a stronger claim to the throne. You are the unchallenged heir to the throne. Do you think she comes this far to hand the throne to you willingly? When she has sacrificed her husband, her child, her dragon. Do you think she will not see you as a threat? Especially after tonight?” She watches him mulling over this. She knows he knows the stake. What they would lose especially when the other has dragons shadowing her every movement.

Her voice drops as she beseeches him to accept his fate. “I saw the way she looks at you. She is jealous of you. People cheer for you; people rally behind you. She is already threatened as it is, what would she do once she knows who you really are?”

He closes his eyes, massaging the bridge of his nose – _how did he end up in this position anyway?_ before he offers her a reply.

“But I don’t want the throne. I just want to save our people. Everything I have done I did it to ensure we all have the chance to continue living. I did everything necessary to ensure that.” He wants her to understand too that it is not all love when it comes to him and Daenerys. Fear of the undead forces you to cling to whatever it is that can stretches the breaths of the living. 

“And I don’t want to be raped by Ramsay yet here we are.” Jon is sorry. Sorry that he makes her said that.

“Here we are…” She repeats herself.

She closes the small distance between them, her forehead pressing against his, “We are passed this Jon. It is never about what we want. We never have such luxuries to begin with. We make do with what we have.” She wants him to take that leap. She knows it is a lot to take in, she knows it is not fair for him but what other choice do they have this far into the game?

There are more to be spoken between them but the door swings open, revealing the Dragon Queen, surprisingly alone. She looks smaller without her advisors, without her dragons.

They both springs up to their feet, creating distance between them under the heavy scrutiny of the Queen.

“Your Grace. We were discussing our men.” Sansa lies through her teeth and Jon takes notice how quickly she puts on her armor, her façade.  

“Ahh, it seems I have interrupted a very important discussion.” Daenerys walks around the room, taking in the bare furniture. Unlike Jon, she knows the secret this chamber carries. She turns on her heels, walking closer towards Sansa. “Pretty room. Wasn’t this your chamber before, Lady Stark? When you are married to Ramsay Bolton? My my. You must have been very unhappy here. He barely spruced up the place for his beloved wife.”

Sansa looks taken aback, eyes widen with such cruel remarks and Jon finally realizes his grave mistake. He understands too well now as to why Sansa wasn’t being herself earlier. He tries to catch her attention, to tell her he didn’t know but all he could see are her hands turning to tight fists beside her as she struggles to keep her breathing even.

The Queen smiles, enjoying the crumble of Sansa’s armor.

“You miss the announcements the two of you.”

“What announcements, Your Grace?” Sansa inquires, trying her best to not break in front of her. Her voice steady, her insides are churning.

Daenerys smiles gleefully. Her pretense chokes Sansa with bile and she grinds her heels onto the floor, stopping herself from storming out. “I will have your marriage to Ramsay Bolton annulled and restore your previous marriage to Tyrion Lannister. I believe congratulations are in order. Seeing that he is the last of the Lannisters, that would make you the new Lady of Casterly Rock.”

Sansa bites her tongue, disgusted at the games she is playing. His Queen truly is flinging her far from the North, taking everything that’s left and making it all hers.

“And I believe I don’t really have a say on such matter, do I?” Sansa returns the Queen’s playful smile, daring herself to send her a sharp glare.

“Missandei told me that you claimed Tyrion as the best compared to others. I fail to see why your reunion with him would be a mistake. It is a gift, from me to you.”

Losing her home yet again. Losing herself yet again. Being sent to the South while still breathing…the mere thought knocks the wind out of her. She stumbles backward, her hands flailing before he pulls her back on her feet. His eyes never leaving hers, absorbing all the pain clearly etched on her face despite her best effort to conceal it.

She pulls herself together, forcing her lips to deliver empty appreciations before she left her previous hell only to enter a future yet again dictated by others, waiting for her to succumb. She heard him yelling at his Queen behind the closed door, but she is too blinded with the terror of leaving the North forever to stop and listen to what they are arguing about.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!


	3. Thread

“You do not speak to her like that. Do you understand?” He hisses at the Dragon Queen.  He does not care to recognize where such boldness comes from. One simply does not talk to Sansa in such a condescending manner.

She does not appreciate his tone in the slightest. She does not take kindly that the very few persons she trusted, two of them now have shown leniency when it comes to Sansa.

She doesn’t know why but lately she seems to forget how to control her emotions. She wants to lash out openly as she worries over the shrinking number of her loyal advisors, over her lack of support here in the North, over these voices in her head that prefers violence as a mean to get what she wants.

“If you are a Targaryen, I would have assumed you love Sansa both as a sister and a lover.” She comments scornfully. Words meant to wound him.

“If I am a Targaryen, you would be my aunt. It would not have been frown upon in the open but the Stark in me balked at the notion.” He moves to leave her alone with the hints he has thrown at her direction, but his steps halted by the rising voice of hers.

“Explain yourself!”

This is not the way he intends for her to find out. Given his way, he would have this secret die with him. But now that it is already out there in the open, he proceeds irrationally.

“Your brother Rhaegar Targaryen is my father. He had his marriage to Elia Martell annulled before he is married to Lyanna Stark. My real name, bestowed upon me by my mother is Aegon Targaryen.”

Shock and betrayal flash after one another on her face. She wants to deny it but the image of him touching her dragons, riding on one of them poisons her doubt.

“You manipulated me… You made me fight your war, you have Viserion killed by your enemy. How could you…?”

My enemy? He has long kept this argument inside his mind. Her needs to have everyone bending their knees in return of her assistance is something he could not understand when he is raised to put duty above everything else.

“The Battle of Long Night is your war. The people of the North are your people. You do not claim the Iron Throne and bathe in the luxury of dictating which fight is yours and which fight should be forsaken. You bear the responsibilities of saving everyone.”

“You manipulated me.” She couldn’t let that go. The betrayal too thick and still coursing through her.

“I did what I did to ensure the survival of our kind.” He is ashamed. Ashamed that he has cast aside his honor and he wonders if the Targaryen in him has made that possible.

“It wasn’t love?” her voice breaks but her stare is vacant.

Jon keeps his silence.

Realizing that his answer lies within his stillness, Daenerys swallows her heartbreak and focuses on what is important. “Do you want the throne?”

“I do not want it.” His answer is quick, and Daenerys finds very little peace from it.

She scowls and for a split second, it is as if Jon could see the madness light up within her.

“Very well then,” her sudden smile frightens him. “Would you like to hear the second announcement I made without your presence my dearest nephew?” She walks towards the bed and sits as she imagines ways to get what she wants that would hurt him and binds him to her forever. Like a dog.

Jon very much despises being in the same room as her, but he wants to know everything firsthand. Sansa told him repeatedly that he needs to be smarter than the previous Warden of the North, smarter than the previous King of the North.

“We are to be married after this war ends. You will stand by my side in exchange for your people’s safety.”

“Do I have a say in it?” he repeats after Sansa.

The Dragon Queen shakes her head slowly. “I may have lost Viserion but I still have two,"

She runs her hand over the cold bed before she continues to gloat at him. “Be a good bed warmer and perchance the North will remain covered in snow instead of ashes.”

She is her father’s daughter. That thought sneaks into his mind before it settles permanently there.

She stands up, walking towards him, reading his expressions that change with each step she takes. The sound of her step echoes inside the chamber before she stops in front of him.

“We are Targaryen, my dearest Aegon. It is our duty to keep the blood pure.” Her hands travel down, hovering over her belly.

Jon is quick to grasp what she is implying. No, he mouths the word, taking a step back as comprehension falls over him.

She smirks gleefully.  

“You did what needs to be done to ensure the survival of our kind. The kind that deserves to sit on the Iron Throne.”

“I don’t believe you.” He murmurs numbly.  

“Remain on your knees and do as you are told.”

She leaves, letting him stew in her lie. Anything to get her closer to the throne. Anything to keep him chained to her.

\----------

“Sansa? Open the door please.” Jon knocks gently waiting for her to appear. But moments went by and the door stood there unmoving, mocking his futile effort.

He tries again, his gentle knocking turns persistent and louder. His desperation makes him bang the door with his palm.

_Let me in Sansa. Let me in._

Silence.

Jon forces himself to stop and to think of something, anything that could lure her out if she is not letting him in. An idea forms in his mind, playing on Sansa’s needs to put others before herself. It is not fair, but if that’s the only way then so be it.

“Sansa?” he tries his best to numb the desperation on his voice.

Silence.

“My wound. It is bleeding.” Lie. “The stitches might have unraveled. Will you help? Please?” Another lie.

It was not convincing even to his own ears but the door creaks open, half of her face covered by it. He quickly grasps the barrier between them, denying her chance to slam the door shut.

“Show me.” Her eyes turn into slits. He knows she does not fall for his lie, so he pushes himself through the small opening of the door, insisting to be at the other side of it with her. She tries to push him away, angry at his defiance but in the end, she walks away, letting him do whatever he pleases.

He locks the door behind him. Having granted access to her chamber albeit reluctantly, suddenly he is lost for words. He notices how she is only clad with a thin sheath and he quickly looks down, unsure.

Sansa picks up her cloak, covering herself before she begins, “What is it, Jon? Clearly, you are not hurt. My head is throbbing, and I really crave that much-needed rest.” Her hair is unbounded, left to fall behind her. She tells him she wants nothing else but to sleep but seeing how her sewing equipment is scattered on the rug in front of the hearth, he knows for certain that sleep eluded her. He kneels momentarily, picking up the piece she must have been working tirelessly on, of a wolf, smack in the middle of the cloth, being shield by a dragon.

He wonders if that piece is made to mock him, and insult she could not hurl straight at him, but he throws such spiteful thought away. He picks up her things, gathering them neatly inside the small basket meant as their sanctuary and placed it by the edge of her bed.

He breaks the silence with the sincerest apology he could muster, “I didn’t know about the room Sansa. I am truly sorry.”

Sansa squints at the fire, looking through it with such intensity as if she is captivated by each flicker as if she is blessed with answers to every question she ever has simply by staring at it.

 “Lesson number one Jon. When you are a King, listen well. To even rumors for they at least carry a grain of truth that a wise person can sift through.”

Jon simply nods. He purses his lips, hovering closer to her. She does not move away. He takes it as permission. He settles with standing behind her, staring into the redness of her hair, the color of fire on its own.

“I want to know Sansa. When you fill your days stitching others, who stays behind to stitch you back together?”

He means well but his question feels intrusive to her. Yes, he is someone she heavily relied on for safety, but that question, after what had transpired before, second guesses her strength. It is not something she could ever appreciate. She does not need help. No one is ever there to help her, only there to step all over her.

Only there to remind her how much she has been tainted.

“I. Did.” She enunciates each syllable, her hair whips across Jon’s face as she turns angrily at him, trying to stand with as much as pride and dignity allowed to someone…someone…like herself.

Her tongue stumbles too, trying to grab one cohesive argument as she feels the wall inside her, the one she has carefully stacked together brick by brick meant to contain her rage shakes violently after Daenerys carefully thought out words meant specifically to get under her skin. She grits her teeth, knowing full well tonight’s sleep would be filled with night terrors that no one will be allowed to be a witness of.

_But Bran knows…_

_Yet knowing changes nothing…_

A small part of her reminds her that nothing could be achieved with talking. Her decision final, she glares at Jon who is still, still trying his best to be there for her. To be some kind of assistance should she allow it.

_Maybe other times._

Tonight, his presence irks her to the bone.

“What do you seek to achieve tonight Jon? To finish what your Queen has started? To see me crumble? Lying on the floor, weeping for all the bad things that have befallen unto me? We are all children of circumstances Jon and my circumstances have only birthed a stronger me. Strong enough to carry all of it alone!” her voice rising and despite her best effort to reign her emotions, she is, in fact, crumbling in front of him, eyes defiant yet body shaking from the strenuous effort to not fling all that she could put her hands on straight to the fire, to not fling herself into the fire for death is openly welcome when the darkness of her past insists to cross the threshold of her sanity.

Jon stood still, part of him relieved that her façade is tearing apart _. This is part of healing_ , he told himself and he wants to be with her when she is forced to deal with all her demons. He braces himself for an onslaught. She needs such release, he would help her contain it, tame it, and if he truly dares, maybe he could help her be free of it.

Sansa is pacing back and forth, her hands rubbing against one another, her knuckles white. Her hair swishes with her increase pace, her lips tremble as she mutters unintelligibly to herself.   

 “Sansa.” He calls for her as she appears to be sinking deeper, reliving the experiences she had been forced to endure.

“Sansa!”

She stops muttering, focusing on his voice, trying to find an anchor before she loses herself for good.

“I thought I’ve cut off all the strings. I thought I am free to be my own person. Free to be a Stark. But she…she reminds me that freedom is hers to be rationed and none is ever meant for me!”

“Always a puppet, always a pawn to a different king, to a different queen.”

“I want to be free. Theon is free and I envy him for that.” Her eyes begging for that release. He knows that look. He remembers himself seething when he is brought back to life. Death does seem alluring when you’ve been betrayed. He understands at least that much.

“Theon is dead Sansa.” His voice firm as he holds her arms, trying to shake some sense into her.

“No. He is free. Free. While I still breathe life into that wretched cunt I was convinced to take as a husband to save Winterfell!”

“You are not breathing life into his memories Sansa. He too is gone. You see to it yourself.”

“The fact that I am alive means part of him is alive!”

“Stop doing this to yourself Sansa. Live! Leave him in the past, forget him…”

“Forget him? Is that even an option?” She barks at him. She wants it to be an option, but she knows that is simply wishful thinking. She runs her fingers through her long tresses, eyes closed, picturing how peaceful Theon looks in his death.

“I remember telling you wonderful things about scars. How it is a sign that you survive, you heal and live. Remember?” her voice is clouded with pauses as she searches for words needed to explain herself.

Jon nods. How could he forget?

“Have I told you the uncomfortable truth about them?” her eyes shot to the ceiling, trying to remember it herself.

He shakes his head, keeping his words to himself as he wishes for her to speak freely.

“They are reminders. A token that allows you to be transported back to that time, vividly.”

He agrees with her. She cuts him off before he manages a helpful reply.

“And they are strewn all over my body. It doesn’t take much to remember.”

She shakes herself free from her cloak, almost, almost freeing herself from the remaining offensive piece that covers the length of her body, but she settles with pushing the sleeves up to her shoulders, parading her scars to him. He clutches her hands in his as he stares down at her now open secrets. The fire flickers, the rise of the smooth ridges of her scars cast shadows onto her pale skin. The scars were too much, some carved deep into her and she is telling the truth, he does not doubt her words when she told him she sewed herself together, embedding her pain deeper inside her, buried under her skin.

His heart breaks for her.

Suddenly Sansa’s act of feeding Ramsay to his own hounds seemed too kind to be a punishment.

“Men love blood," her voice drops to a whisper. "On the battlefield, on their bed. I doubt they could live a single day without its rotten smell.” She speaks to her scars. Her generalization does not bother him in the slightest even when it stands as an accusation that applies to him too. After all that she has been through, with so little kindness offered to her, is it truly her fault to come by to such conclusion?

He wishes with time she would unlearn that. He desires to be the one showing her how.

He pulls her against his own chest, willing the tightness of his embrace to pull her back together whole. Her hands limp by her side, her body rigid. His hand rubs gently across her back but the thin material of her gown allows him to feel the bumps of old marks across her back. Curiosity blooms. Using his fingertips, he tries to gauge the beginning and the end, but the lines are crossing each other so redundantly they resemble knotted yarns one would be a fool should he tries to unknot it.

If such discovery doesn’t shock him enough, the mirth of laughter from her lips sure did.

“Those are emblems of Robb’s victory etched onto my skin. Jeoffrey’s doing. Those, I wear with pride.” Her voice muffled against his clothes.

Jon shivers with rage so potent, hissing as he pulls her under his protection. Sansa senses this, notices how he forces himself to breathe slowly as he takes it all, learning her sufferings.

“He’s dead Jon.”

Returning her own answer to her, Jon lifts her head to see her clearly, “So does Ramsay.”

Her nose wrinkles with distaste, tasting her clumsy answer. She wants him to understand the extent of Ramsay’s doing and why it bothers her to this day that even in his death she could never be at peace.

She condenses her argument in six simple words.

“Jeoffrey hurt me. Ramsay _soiled_ me.”  

She lets the word hung between them, letting it sinks. His lips thinning into a straight line, his hands' snake around her waist protectively, their noses almost touching, and she continues,

“I taste him on my lips still, on my tongue. It disgusts me. I want to cleanse it, but I don’t know how.” She is not demanding for an answer, not seeking for help, even when her hands crumple his clothes searching for support as her body sags onto the floor. She is done waiting for others to offer her kindness, but Jon feels compelled to offer it anyway.

He wraps his hand around her waist, one hand he lifts to stroke her cheek lightly. His lips parted and hers parted slightly, not knowing what to expect. He descends closer, surely but carefully giving her ample time to shove him away but she remains still, waiting.

She tilts her head readily as his lips touch hers lightly. Jon vows to put as much kindness as he could behind this kiss. So much so that she could taste it. So potent so that it could erase what needs to be removed permanently.

Her heart thunders, her mind reeling, trying to understand but eventually, she gives in to her darkest desire. His lips move with hers with a level of tenderness she doesn’t recognize. She is hesitant at first, her eyes open, staring back at his gaze that is begging for her to trust him. She nods slightly, their lips still touching. Jon takes that subtle nod as permission, taking the lead in showing her how beautiful a kiss could be. He coaxes her lips to allow him to enter, tasting her sweetness that to him can never be tampered with. When she closes her eyes, he follows suit, losing himself as they deny any distance between their colliding bodies.

They stay like that for quite some time. Hands buried in hairs, gentle tugs, and moans whenever their lips separated from each other as they gasp for air. Sansa does not register when he pulls her down, flush against his body as he sits on the floor, his back against the frame of her bed, pulling her closer.

Finally, Jon pulls away. His breaths ragged and so does hers. He looks down at her, his voice deep and husky as he inquires,

“Do you still taste him?”

Sansa has never experienced such raw tenderness that weakens her knees. She doesn’t know that it could feel this good. Now that she has had a taste, she is not quite ready to let it slip away.

“If I say yes would you try again?” Sansa rasps against his chin, rubbing her soft skin against his rough beard, daring herself to be selfish.

His answer breaks a euphoria within her.

“Gladly,” he said before they begin again.

\----------

Sansa sighs contently as she presses her ear against his beating heart. _Was it wrong or was it despicable?_ She doesn’t want to know for sure. It could simply be a charity from his point of view, something for her to hold on to. She doesn’t want to know just yet. Come tomorrow he might return to his Queen, but she decides to steal this moment when it is offered so generously. Not long after, she falls asleep against his body, glowing ethereally simply from kisses they shared moments ago. He reaches for the fur on her bed, pulling it down to cover her body. The heave topples down Sansa’s sewing basket, her recent embroidery scattered next to him. He takes notice of it but put it aside for a moment as he spreads the cover over her body, tucking it neatly around her, protecting her from the cold night Winterfell is known for.

He wishes for the fire to roar louder but it is late and there are only embers left. Sansa is sleeping soundly, and the sight plasters a smile on his face. But his own eyes refuse such escape, demanding him to sort out his feelings first and foremost.

Sansa is never a sister to him, that much he is aware of. Not the way Arya is. Since they were young, Sansa has always been Lady of Winterfell in the making. Her mother made sure they were never in the same room unless their father – _her_ father intercepted his wife’s decision. They have no fond memories together as children. She is the forbidden fruit, and he has been told to repeatedly suppressed what is accused as the beastly desire that comes from being a bastard. He worries about her the same way loyal people worry over their lady.

He has always yearned to belong to the Stark and ever since their reunion, Sansa has constantly asserted his claim as one. Now things turn complicated. He is no longer certain with what he wants, or to which house he wants to belong to. After all that has happened, he is only certain of one thing,

He loves her.

He muffles his groan as he traces back his heated conversation with Daenerys. He wonders if she was telling the truth. Jon rubs his free hand over his face over and over. He looks away, searching for a distraction. His gaze falls onto Sansa’s recent piece, the one he has decided that he might have a reason to resent. He picks it up, trying to appreciate the details of the two majestic animals. When he held it before, he thought that the dragon is Drogon, symbolizing the Dragon Queen, while the wolf is him as Ghost - hiding behind a dragon, a coward. Now that he has the chance to have a second look, he realizes that the dragon is green with bronze marking. Rhaegal, named after his father and the one that allows him to ride his back. His attention moves to the dire wolf, taken under Rhaegal’s wings. This is not Ghost. Ghost has red eyes and fur as white as snow. The one permanently embroidered on the cloth is grey, eyes yellow. This dire wolf was Sansa’s before her untimely death.  

A sudden appreciation for Sansa’s needlework emerges from him. Sansa conveys messages through her stitches -the most recent example would be the cloak she has made for him that marked him as a Stark. She plans each detail carefully and it dawns on him that what he is holding now could be what she desires the most.

When the time is right, he will ask again, just to be sure.

His smile light up the chamber even when he is uncertain with what is stored for them. Even when Daenerys threat swings dangerously over his head, for once he looks forward to his future. He keeps that piece close to him, a reminder of his and her shared dream.

\----------

Sansa feels a certain relief having Daenerys leaving Winterfell as she heads to King’s Landing to claim what she believes hers and hers alone. She wonders if Jon has told the dragon Queen about his lineage before they engage in yet another war. The last war they call it, but she knows the nature of humans that worship chaos. Wars are the thread that connects civilizations, connects time and all effort could only be made to postpone it, never to deny its persistence. She exhales her fear away, trying to tame her wild heartbeats at the prospect of being banished to Casterly Rock. Her mere presence disperses the crowd as she towers among others, creating a path for her to take her place next to Bran. She steals a quick glance at him, making sure he is covered with enough furs to protect him from the cold. Bran catches her glance, beckoning her to come closer. Sansa heeds, her face next to him as he whispers words only meant for her alone,

“Careful Sansa. You can never save us all.” She straightens her back as she stands next to him, her hand placed over his shoulder. Her gaze sweeps over the soldiers standing in front of her as she wonders who amongst them will be lucky enough to live for one more day.

She presses gently on his shoulder before she replies his blatant reminder,

“We are all old enough to know the true currency of wars Bran. Deaths. We could only control the amount, but both sides have to pay eventually.”

Bran throws his gaze on the same person Sansa’s eyes have lingered a fraction longer. _Grey Worm_. Sansa nods at the leader of the Unsullied, a curious exchange witness by no one but him.

“Will it work?” Her voice betrays her, her anxiety apparent to those who know how to listen.

“Perhaps.” A short answer from him.

“Then I shall brunt the cost gratefully,” Sansa concludes.

\----------

_The fall of the Night King took overextended moments to comprehend. Such a massive scale of threat demanded respect even in its downfall. As the undead fell onto the ground, resting for good this time, the living stood transfixed, watching the fall, listening to the dull thuds surrounding them, eerily similar to heartbeats that gradually slowed down, before the final thud followed by only silence. The living fell to the ground too, exhaustion swept them off their feet._

_What was left were huddled together inside their fortress, trying to make sense of how they had beaten the odds. Wounds were cleaned but not as thoroughly since all eyes were wide as saucers, relieving what could have been their final moment, all lips were whispering of who had managed to end it for good._

_Was it the dragons?_

_(A trembling voice strained to have the answer.)_

_No._

_It was the wolves._

_(Few voices claimed with pride so profound it was thick in the air as the news traveled amongst the livings.)_

_The living and the dead were scattered together, all over because the dead had managed to be everywhere. No one could be too sure of who had perished, or who are still breathing but unanimously they agreed that the long night has come to an end and tomorrow, tomorrow, they will rebuild._

_While the rest decided to be at ease, Sansa was quick to provide sustenance, stitches, attending those she could reach all while searching for one person, Arya. She knew where Jon was, knew where Bran was, but Arya had managed to disappear, swallowed by the night. She walked amongst the dead, fearing the worst wondering if the one who had killed the threat would have to die too. Everything was possible now, magic, dragons, wights all simmered together, bubbling precariously before splashing out to those who dared to deny their existences._

_She made her way to the crypt, the smell of death strong and unyielding. She pushed the door opened, taken aback with the horrible smell before she closed the door behind her. Slowly yet surely, she descended through the stairs, part of her somehow knew that she could find Arya here. As she reached the final step, she saw the familiar figure, huddling over a body._

_Arya sensed her, she assumed, for she stayed in her position, not showing any sign of moving. Sansa moved closer, curious at what she was doing. From the back, she saw the glint of her dagger, marred with blood and as she stood at the head of the dead body, the glare of the golden hand caught her attention first._

_Arya looked up at her, smiling before she continued carving his face off._

_Sansa notices the deft hand movements, the clean-cut needed to peel off one’s face. Sansa knew not to question what her little sister had learned, what it had cost her, so she knelt next to her, applauding her knife skill._

_“Such an exquisite skill.” Sansa watched as the length of her blade climbed gradually following the rise of the dead Lannister’s nose._

_Arya beamed and is that a blush rising on her cheeks? Sansa observed her proudly._

_“For Cersei?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“How about the other?”_

_Arya’s hand went still as she turned to read her sister’s face. From being hunched over the body, she let her weight fell onto her calves, her hands folded on her lap, her eyes narrowed as she mulled over her question. Sansa knew something she doesn’t. It was not apparent on her face, but she had learned to trust her sister’s judgment. Arya knew not how to maneuver the lords to readily agree on any given issue. Sansa was trained to appease court but even with such skill, she knew how tedious the process could be. The lords swayed and the lords grumble. It was easier to plan ahead – Sansa will sentence the offender; Arya will wield the sword while Bran observes. The Stark’s Justice._

_“Should I add her name to my list then?” Her eyes back on the piece of skin, her thumb rubbing against the hilt of her dagger, searching for the lost momentum._

_“I will find you a face.” The length of her skirt swished across the dead’s forehead._

_“That would be helpful, thank you.”_

_\----------_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is quite challenging because I read it again and again to a point where I doubt myself. It makes sense when I write it but when I read it, it offers a different experience. I post it anyway after heavy editing since in order for me to be better I have to first try, isn't it? Tell me what you think. I appreciate the feedbacks. 
> 
> Thank you.


	4. Patchwork

_ After the fall of the Night King.  _

_Arya and Sansa sat together in front of the fire. Sansa was quiet, offering Arya the time needed to fully grasp the truth she had learned about her favorite brother’s ancestry. She was exhausted – they were both are, yet she had no intention to rest. There was a more urgent matter to attend to and she needed her only trusted ally at the moment – Arya. She needed to see Arya, to consult with her directly after she had sent her the body of Grey Worm, for her little sister to harvest a means to stay close to the Dragon Queen._

_They sat there in silence, only the sounds of firewood crackling and popping as the fire devoured them, finally having moments to fully assess the situation they had direly escape from before thrown into a fresh hell taking the form of a small but deadly conqueror._

_Arya sat cross-legged, none of them facing each other. She was very much surprised to learn that Jon was never her brother but a cousin. She took a swig from her goblet, drowning the realization that the very foundation of Robert Baratheon’s rebellion was flawed. Sansa heard her soft sigh. She turned her head towards her, relieved with the presence of her little sister._

_“Have you seen Jon?” Sansa had no doubts that Arya would have been very eager to have her brother’s approval after finishing the Night King._

_“No. His Queen was there.” She looked bothered, dejected even. Her mouth opened before she shut it too quick, at loss for words._

_“A Targaryen? Jon is a Targaryen? But he looks so much like a Stark…his brooding reminds me of Father! The rest never do that!” Arya lamented more to herself._

_“Can you imagine Jon with hair in such shade?” Sansa grinned foolishly. It might have been the exhaustion but discussing this intense new reality with her little sister felt as if they were just two young girls discussing silly things they did during the day._

_The mirth of laughter built up slow as both tried to conjure the image of Jon with Targaryen’s coloring. It started with giggles before they both looked at each other, full laughter erupted resulting in both lying on the floor, hands covering their mouths before pressing the side of their body as they tried to stop their body from shaking, very much amused with the image they had of Jon._

_“Stop it! Stop it!” Sansa pleaded to Arya but if she was being honest, she did not want to stop as she saw how much the laughter lift Arya’s face, reminding her of their stolen childhood._

_The laughter died eventually as they both stared at the ceiling as the harsh reality crept in._

_“She wouldn’t like it,” Arya spoke first._

_Sansa kept her silence._

_“What can we do?” Arya pushed for a definite answer. She knew what Sansa thought the best next course of action was, but she needed to hear it again._

_“We protect him.” Sansa’s reasoning was simple but the arguments she had before she came to such a conclusion was a lengthy one. She played all the game she had learned from Cersei, from Littlefinger and they all produced the same answer – execute the threat._

_The Queen would not even consider North’s independence, the Queen had proven how willing she was to burn those against her. The Mother of Dragon had shown how little she knew about honoring people’s differences and in Sansa’s eyes, her failure to listen to reasons would result in yet another Mad King. Another Cersei but this would have believed that she is doing the right thing. At least Cersei acknowledged the fact that she is evil. Someone should put an end to her reign – before it even started._

_She knew how silly it looked, and she sensed Arya felt it too. Here they were, discussing a means to end the war without a council, without a map strewn with pebbles drawn with houses’ emblems discussing the advantageous position that would help one to win the war. Two girls. Just two, how could they be enough?_

_Arya voiced out her thought. “We are just two girls from Winterfell. Are we capable of putting an end to this madness when Robb couldn’t win the previous war?  When father couldn’t even put a stop to the very same war that births all this chaos?” Arya knew her agenda was never about saving others. Hers had always been about vengeance, the blood of those who had hurt her family while Sansa had chosen to carry the burden of saving Winterfell for their family and saving the North too._

_“We are never just two girls from Winterfell. We are Starks.” Sansa hushed Arya’s doubt before she continued further,_

_“What other choices do we have than to try? We don’t have an army, we don’t have dragons, we don’t even have our Lady, our Nymeria. We only have each other.” Sansa pushed aside her own doubts. Repeatedly she told herself – if Petyr Baelish, one man can orchestrate a war, is that really impossible for the both of them to end it?_

_“It has to be enough. It must.” Her whisper was loud enough for Arya to realize how important this mission she was assigned with._

_“Whatever you have to do once you are there, Jon’s hands mustn’t be tainted with her blood for him to claim the throne.” Sansa reminded her. They looked at each other, eyes reflecting each other’s worries._

_\---_

_Sansa insisted that they slept together. Arya did not protest much. They cleaned themselves from the smell of death that insisted to clung onto their bodies before they pulled the cover to their chest, facing each other. Their plan was set, Sansa had given her sentence, Arya would have to execute it._

_Sansa tucked Arya’s hair behind her ear, wondering if they would ever have calm moments like this with one another. One where they were simply sisters. Her hand hovered across a gash on Arya’s forehead._

_“Do you want me to stitch that?”_

_“No. Come morrow I’ll be wearing a different face.”_

_Sansa simply nodded. They listened to each other’s breathing, lips cracking a sheepish grin each time their gazes landed on one another._

_“What is the most absurd thing you did in your...” Sansa searched for words to describe the years they had spent at mercy of whatever gods in charge of the realms. In the end, she settled with an option that did not bear the weight of their experience but enough to cover it. “…in your travel?”_

_Arya offered Sansa a very unladylike snort for asking such peculiar question. A list sprung out in her mind, but she settled with one._

_“I baked pies.” Her tone was nonchalant as she decided to skip the key ingredient inside them._

_“Mother would have been so shocked.” Sansa could barely cover her own surprise._

_Arya smiled thoughtlessly too. She reached out for her sister’s hand. Her one and only sister. “She would have been so shocked about a lot of things that are happening right now. But at least she wouldn’t be shocked about one thing.”_

_“And what is that?” Sansa used her other hand to cover her yawn._

_Arya squeezed Sansa’s hand gently before she told her what she thought of, “How good you are as Lady of Winterfell.”_

_Sansa’s vision blurred as tears appeared at such kind words from her sister. “Please don’t die. Just don’t.” she held Arya’s hand tighter, desperate for her to know how important she was to her._

_Arya was aware how many times she had eluded death and at times she wondered too if she was running out of time. “….and what do we say to the God of Death?” She repeated what she had always told herself as she forced herself to live another day, to fill her needs for vengeance._

_“What…?” Sansa croaked out, curious with what could be said when death was so near._

_“Not today.”_

_“Not today,” Sansa repeated Arya’s answer._

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought, why not extend the tender moments to include moments between Arya and Sansa too. I intend to highlight the close bond between sisters, yes I know Arya wanted to kill Sansa at one point but they are different now. This is a short chapter and ahhh, I'm getting nervous about finishing what I hope would be the final chapter. If it is too long I will cut it to two. 
> 
> Share the work if you thought it is good. I welcome feedback even though I must say it is pretty much nervewracking when I click to read it. Hopefully, you enjoy this chapter. 
> 
> * italicized chapter would be an attempt to show that the scene is a flashback.


	5. Seam Ripper

_Seam Ripper:_

_A small tool used for unpicking or cutting stitches._

_\----------_

Sansa watches the Dragon Queen from the safety of her home as she stands close to the edge of the parapet. The Dragon Queen is heading for her dragons. She takes notice that someone is watching her like a hawk as she stands next to her brother. She leaves Bran behind, determines to follow the last of the queen’s shadow, part of her simmers still from their last encounter all while luring the man’s attention towards somewhere quiet. She needs to plant doubts in his mind and offers a relief to salve the trust she wishes to shake by the end of the meeting. She places her hands on top of the snow sleeping on the ledge, feeling the cold seeps through her gloves. The Queen has mounted her dragon, she assumes as the lethal beasts rise to the sky. From afar she could only imagine how powerful one could feel being a mother to dragons. How undisputable one would feel in such a position.

“You seem too determined to dislike her.” A familiar voice breaks the peace.

Without turning, she speaks openly, addressing the whole world, “If one is consistent in supplying me reasons to do so I fail to see why I have to explain myself to you Lord Tyrion, or is it husband now?” She throws a glimpse at him, satisfied to see him swallow the word ‘husband’ bitterly.

“I will try to talk to her and readdress the issue. I know it is not to your liking.”

Sansa tries albeit not her best to scoff upon listening to his answer. “Since when talking solve any issues. Did talking save my father? Robb? Jaime? Did talking make Cersei sends her army? No.”

“Do not provoke her, please.” Tyrion cares for Sansa and knowing what Daenerys is capable of and observing how reluctant Sansa is, he is afraid for her. He wonders if keeping her in Casterly Rock would have saved her, but he knows she would rather die than leave her home ever again.

“Is that an order, my dearest husband?” and Tyrion exhales loudly as he is being punished for an arrangement made without his council by the Dragon Queen.

She could no longer spot the dragons in the sky. They have flown far, not even a speck against the blue. Sansa turns to Tyrion. “What was the proverb I heard once before – enlighten me, Lord Tyrion. It has something to do with wildfire and cock.”

Tyrion could not help but grin. Hearing Sansa said such word seems very out of her character. “Piss on wildfire and your cock will burn.” He knows that one, he read it somewhere.

“Your Queen _is_ the wildfire. She’ll burn cocks, cunts whoever dares to stand between her and her whims. Between her and her beloved throne.”

“You don’t know that.” Tyrion pleads her to stop. To stop and put the same faith he dares to cling on to when it comes to Daenerys Targaryen.

Sansa nods. Never she has been forced to witness her burning people, but she heard enough, been trained well enough to judge people’s characters. “True. But I see it in your eyes. You are afraid of her.” The realization only strengthens her resolve to make Tyrion switches to her side, and hopefully to Jon’s side as the truest ally.  

Standing under her scrutinize makes Tyrion shuffles two steps away from her. “A good ruler needs to inspire with a little fear.”

“Horseshit.” She counters his feeble defense.

Sansa struggles to make him see what is blatantly obvious to her. She takes a deep breath and tries to create a framework for her argument in which will leave Daenerys out of the way. “You are the smartest person I know. Do tell, what kind of ruler best sit on the Iron Throne?” She folds her hands in front of her, waiting for Tyrion to answer.

Tyrion notices how she reigns her emotion and part of him is proud of the person she has become today. Delighted to see that after all, she has been through, she is still that girl he knew in King’s Landing – unyielding. Part of him wishes the same control from the Dragon Queen.

Despite being addressed as the smartest person she knows, to answer her question, Tyrion repeats what Lord Varys has said once. “Someone stronger than Tommen but gentler than Stannis. Someone who can intimidate the High Lords and inspire the people. A ruler loved by millions, with a powerful army and the right family name.”

_Daenerys Targaryen._

Sansa smiles respectfully. “I know someone who unites people to fight for a cause. I know someone who is loved and trusted, respected by his people. I know someone who has proven himself how willing he is to die for his people. Someone good. Someone better.”

“If you meant Jon Snow, he lacks the most important thing – the right family name.”

“By the right family name, you mean Targaryen is it not?” Sansa interlaces her fingers, eager to supply a contender to the throne. She halts for a second, knowing full well that the secret she is about to speak off is never hers to give away, but this is dire times. She will pay the price later.

Tyrion is waiting. Curious with the direction this conversation is sailing. Sansa licks her lips nervously before she begins, a new brand of confidence flowing in each word. “Jon is never a Snow; he is a Targaryen. _Aegon Targaryen_. His father is Rhaegar Targaryen, mother, Lyanna Stark. They wed in secrecy. He was born in secrecy and my father died protecting the strongest claimant to the Iron Throne.”

Tyrion is clearly taken aback. Before he could muster any form of denial, Sansa quickly offers evidence.

“He rides a dragon did he not? How can one as smart as you choose not to question such an occurrence?” She sees it then, a glimpse of unabashed hope in Tyrion’s eyes and she feels hopeful too. She hears a creak before she sees Lord Varys making his way cautiously towards them. Standing not too close but enough to eavesdrop without the slightest shame to cover the deed.

Sansa nods towards him, acknowledging his presence.

She knows Tyrion will confide in Varys the moment she leaves them to their own device. 

“What you are suggesting is treason.” Tyrion reminds her.

“Is it? But my lords, I am just a stupid girl, with stupid dreams. How could I, dare to dream of treason, alone just by myself? What a terrifying thought.”

Tyrion begs to differ. What is more terrifying is her all-knowing smile, glazed with an innocence that reminds him of the younger her.  She ropes them in her scheme. Now they are part of the thread she uses to realize her vision. If she turns to ashes, so do them.

She nods her head once to each lord, her gaze piercing before she excuses herself. Both men stand fixated on their spot, watching her disappears behind the wall.

Varys voices out his concern. “She reminds me of Petyr Baelish. And your sister too.”

 _She is not them. But she has indeed, acquires their skills,_ Tyrion concludes. He walks, knowing that Varys will follow and soon inquires what has been whispered between them. He stops abruptly before he turns to face Varys,

“She’s a threat. An ally, yes, but still a threat. And she is not afraid to let the world know she is one.”

\----------

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Reading. Do leave kudos or comments. It is helpful to learn from feedbacks. Thank you. Tell me what you think. And share the fic if you think it has something to offer. :)
> 
> Thank you.


	6. Eyelet

_Eyelet:_

_Grommets and eyelets are metal, plastic, or rubber rings that are inserted into a hole made through another material. They may be used to reinforce the hole, to shield something from the sharp edges of the hole, or both._

_\----------_

_ Farewell. _

_“You are looking more and more like a crow these days.”_

_“I have my fair share of colors back in King’s Landing.”_

_“At times I wonder if things would be much easier if I am just Jon, and you are just Sansa.”_

_“But you are never just Jon. You are, as intelligent as a crow, as loyal as a dire wolf, and as powerful as a dragon.”_

_“Only you can draw beauty behind such circumstances.”_

_“Will you marry her?”_

_“I don’t want to.”_

_“Were those kisses an act of pity or – “_

_“I meant it.”_

_“Thank you… I’ll treasure it to my death.”_

_“Sansa.”_

_“Yes?”_

_“Nothing. I just want to say it out loud.”_

_“The next time we stand here, I promise I’ll wear the lightest shade of blue you would have ever seen with carefully placed silver trimmings on it.”_

_“As blue as your eyes?”_

_“As blue as my eyes.”_

_\----------_

Words that they could never say out loud, the unspoken promises they know impossible to keep, the last farewell both refuse to submit willingly, the audacity to hope when the future is bleak.

Perhaps it is wise, not to name what they are to one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sweet parting before chaos descends.


	7. Aetzing (Part 1)

_Aetzing_

_The process used to create schiffli laces. The base fabric is dissolved, leaving the threads that have been stitched together to form the lace._

_\----------_

The night before a battle is something interesting to observe if one considers not the possibility of it being the last night of his life. Tyrion drinks to dismiss his uncertainty. Varys stops his whispering and stays coop in his room. Ser Davos with his long walk. The Dothraki, the few of them are enough still to create ruckus while the Unsullied stand ready to receive the command from their Queen.

Jon takes his time walking to his destination. He is summoned to meet her. He knocks the door, waiting for her permission for a few stretch seconds before he enters the chamber used to discuss their battle plans. Daenerys is staring at the vast sea, looking gaunt with her sunken cheeks and her hair free from the tight, intricate braids she used to have. She looks heartbreakingly lonely and Jon doesn’t have it in him to resent her at such vulnerable moment she has dared to let him, witness.

He stands there, waiting for her to acknowledge his presence. The sky is covered with clouds, the moon nowhere to be seen. He knows Daenerys has pleaded Drogon to stay on the land instead of letting him roam the sky. She pleads and Drogon, as if he understands her, stays curled, possibly mourning the loss of his final brother.

Her voice breaks the silence and Jon focuses on what she has to say, expecting her anger somehow. Instead, she speaks softly, so soft Jon must have taken three steps closer to be able to listen clearly.

“I lost so much at this side of the sea. Viserion…Jorah…Rhaegal...Missandei...my army has become smaller, my blood riders… I used to have thousands, ready to avenge me in the event of my death and now I am left with what? Twenty at most…?”

Jon clears his throat, buying time to offer his condolences but she continues, dismissing his poor attempt to ease her pain.

“I lost you,” she turns to look at him. Her voice is a mere whisper. He looks at her carefully now, her face is covered with the shadow courtesy of the candles lit in the chamber, trying to see the good she must have possessed even if recent memories they shared have failed to highlight them. Moments pass and it seems she has shaken off the last remnants of feelings she had borne for him. She heads straight to the fireplace and takes a seat across it. 

“But I gained a nephew. I wonder if that’s a good enough trade.” A slight smile on her lips. She beckons him to sit on the adjacent seat and he follows through.

“No one will say it is a fair trade, Your Grace.”

Daenerys let out a soft chuckle at the way her nephew addresses her. “No need to address me that way here. All my titles have been proven worthless already. Let me revel with the title I am blessed with at this side of the sea.”

Jon is taken aback. He knows how much Daenerys treasures her titles, never failing to remind those around her of how much she has gathered over the years. How could she not? She has earned every right to do so. How is it be possible she would be content with just being his aunt?

He hesitated before he looks at her again, trying to read her expression realizing now that her mood has shifted. Calm, carefree even as if this is just a reunion for lost family members.

Daenerys lets him be with his thoughts before she speaks. She has made up her mind on tomorrow’s fate. Such puts her at ease, leaving her with the needs to simply shares a conversation on something not war-related.

“What do you know about Rhaegar?”

Jon is surprised by the direction of the conversation. He would never expect this. Puzzled, yet he decides to throw his caution to the wind and simply listen. She wants someone to talk to and he could be part of that. He could offer her that much. With that, he leans back to his chair as he goes through his mind, trying to recover anything about his parents, realizing how very little he knows about them both.

“I know nothing about my mother what more of him?”

She nods her head. She too knows not much about his own parents. Just stories passed down by her brother and strangers around her. Easily altered according to each need and what one seeks to achieve. 

“You must have heard tales of how thirsty he was for battles, how vicious he could be to his enemy, how good he was at killing?”

“Few tales describe him as such, yes. I heard those.”

“I heard those too. Repeatedly. So much that when I close my eyes, I used to imagine him bathed with the blood of his enemy. The rubies that decorated the dragons on his breastplate glinting. Always so victorious and powerful, with a face that would send his enemy cowering just with a stare. Never smiling. Never.”

The picture she paints with her words is notorious and Jon finds himself reflecting at the thought of having such man as his father. Could it be that despite what Sam reveals, he had taken his mother by force? Away from a different, possibly much kinder fate? As he mulls over such thoughts, her voice brings him back to the present time.

“Imagine my shock when I learned he loved to sing.”

“He sings?” That is new. It reminds him of another in North who used to love singing.

Her smile grows wider, realizing that this could be something that they both can share without him resenting her– a different depiction of his father. “And he played harp too. He was very good at it. Ser Barristan told me. There were times when they would walk on the street of Red Keep just the two of them, walking amongst the people. He would pick a spot and sing. Made good money out of it too. Can you imagine that? He must have been smiling and laughing. Oh, how depraved we are from witnessing such glory!”

“How did he look like?”, a genuine hunger for more rises within him. Jon leans closer, eager.

She continues, beaming. “The things I know of him I learned it all from Ser Barristan. He told me he was tall with long fingers. That would explain why he was good with his harp. Deep purple eyes with hair the same color as mine.” She leans closer too, her fingers reaching out to touch his curls. Jon moves away from her extended fingers and hurts flash across her face before she replaces it with a sad smile just as quickly. She pulls her hand back to her side, “I wonder what magic is contained within Stark’s blood, to curse you with none of the traits bestowed on us Targaryen?”

She sits quietly, one hand pulling her long lock absent mindedly as she stares at the fire.

_Targaryen_. Jon muses at the thought of how one’s reputation and upbringing hinge on a name. Carry the right family name, and one could claim even the throne. But he has been at both ends. Even with just Snow, he has proven his worth to the world. _One’s value is never determined by name_ , he decides.

“Rhaegar.” She croons over the name. He wonders if she is calling out to her dead dragon, her child instead of his father.

“If only he survived, I could have been a cherished sister. You and I could have been raised together. A gentle heart that could have loved you, could have loved me with kindness as oppose to having Viserys in my life.”

The only thing he knows about the other brother of hers is how he was mocked by many, referred to as the Beggar King.

“What about him?”

Her face turns stoic. Her hands stop fiddling with her hair and she remains fixated on her seat as if she is in trance. “He wanted the crown. He did get it in the end.”

“How?”

“My husband melted the gold and poured it over his head. A crown fit for a king.”

Jon stares at her wondering if she had mourned then. There must have been love, affection to a certain degree for her to name her dragon after him. But now they are both gone – her dragons and her brothers. Now she is left with the one she named after her husband, but he too had left her. Could fate be that cruel to give and take so much from a person? Is fate a wheel that can never be broken, leaving the person trampled again and again over time?

The silence between them stretches as they both are lost in their thoughts.

“Do try to get some sleep Aegon. A new future awaits us tomorrow.” She speaks with authority. As Queen, not his aunt any longer.

 Jon stands, bowing slightly as a sign of respect, a silent thank you with her generosity on sharing things he would never have imagined his father was capable of before he adjourns to his own chamber.

The door shuts behind him. Daenerys is still staring at the fire, seeing what end she wants to bless her enemy tomorrow. She is a dragon and would not be tormented by a mere lioness.

She speaks to herself, never once questioning her decision.

“Now, justice is mine to offer. It is my turn to pour the melted gold.”

 

\----------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Happy reading and do leave kudos and comments. Thank you!


	8. Aetzing (Part 2)

Tyrion was sitting across Varys, his feet dangling as he reached for the pitcher, pouring more wine into his goblet. “We are speaking of treason,” he eyed Varys warily before gulping a huge amount of wine, echoing the things that had been discussed before while they were lulled by the strong waves in the ship.

Varys stopped writing onto the piece of parchment, messages he had sent to his little birds. “You are. I am acting on it.” He carefully placed down his quill on the table before he leaned back against his chair. His fingers interlaced in front of his protruding belly.

Tyrion narrows his eyes towards the other, curious. “What did you do?”

“The Dothraki, Unsullied, they all pledged their lives to her. Even if tomorrow, he somehow manages to sit on that throne, he would be a king with no power, no leverage. Then we will be thrown into another war that we would lose because despite having someone’s worthy he is without the means to ensure lasting peace.  I am speaking not on the behalf of the realm when I say this – fuck this war. I am sick of it. When will it end?” Varys looks as if he is so close to spitting his disgust about living through war.

“When will it end indeed.” Tyrion huffs harshly, his thumb rubbing against the pin on his chest. “Northern army carries a good number with them, but you are not in the wrong. A bigger troop that pledge their loyalty to him would convince the rest to shut up for at least another ten years.”

“But Varys…the Queen…Our Queen.” Tyrion wants to keep good faith in her, but it is proven easier said than done especially after what had transpired in the North.

“Loyalty. You still believe in such while we are already in the midst of committing treason?” He flicks the parchment across the table.

“I am familiar with loyalty. It can be bought. They can be stretched and manipulated for the right price.” Tyrion leans forward, trying to read what is written by Varys.  

“You have been in contact with the Golden Company? That could not possibly work, they made the oath to fight for Cersei.” His voice indignant, underestimating Varys course of action.

“The fact that they last to this day implies that they had their fair share of neglecting the contracts they are bound too. Being in the North truly whispers shitty ideals about loyalty and honor to you does it, Little Lord of Casterly Rock? Should we change the name to Casterly Pebble instead? Much suited with your predicament.” He takes the parchment back, lifting his quill again as he scribbles more discorded truth in it, Tyrion assumes.

“Honor and loyalty are a disease indeed, my dear lambasted eunuch friend.”

Again, with the eunuch reference that has gone stale the longer, they both spend their time together. “Cersei gained a lot from the fall of Highgarden. What the current Queen possesses will soon be inherited by the next ruler. They could remain alive and paid for sitting out this war.”

Tyrion does not look as convinced.

“This Queen has a dragon.” Varys hisses at his friend. “Why ruined their own reputation and perished in the same breath?”

“What if they reject your proposal?” Tyrion speaks his doubts out loud.

“At the very least we already know the currency they are fond of.” Varys folds the parchment and forces it into the roll that is supposed to be his supper. A little girl appears without Tyrion noticing, cleaning the table while sliding the bread deftly into her sleeve. Their eyes follow the girl as she exits the chamber.

Tyrion lifts his goblet and Varys follows suit, toasting whatever fate the Gods favor them tomorrow.

 

**_ THE BEGINNING _ **

 

**_SANSA & BRAN_ **

Sansa could not sleep. She readies herself for the day before she knocks the door to Bran’s chamber, hours before the crack of dawn.

“Has it begun?” The crack in her voice betrays her paraded confidence.  

Bran turns to her, knowing in advance how it would have ended. The burden he must carry until the end of time.

“Yes.”

Sansa walks closer, taking a seat on her little brother’s bed, constantly shifting before she gives up – there is no comfortable position to have a war narrated to you.

“Tell me.” Her hand reaching out to grip his hand. Hoping for the same bravery he has to remain as a witness when there is nothing else they can do.  

 

**_DAENERYS_ **

The men have left earlier, now possibly already marching towards King’s Landing. The Queen stands transfixed on the cliff, overlooking the ocean with Drogon, restless behind her. Even from here she could tell that Rhaegal’s murderers are lurking, waiting to bring an end to her last child. She would not allow it. She would show them all that she is a dragon. She would show them all how a dragon makes all the difference in this world.

She replays the voices of her once trusted advisors. Tyrion beseeches her to stop once the city surrenders. Aegon too voices out his concern about the same issue Tyrion has reminded her with.

“I don’t need the rest to win this war. The Mother of Dragons need not the council of mindless sheep.”

Daenerys climbs onto the back of Drogon. The dragon drops himself down the cliff before he flies upward, slicing through the sky.

The war has begun.  

The harsh wind against her has never deterred her before this and it will never succeed especially not today. She sees them, with their boastful fleet that must have been so proud of themselves, killing a child, _her child._

“Dracarys!”

 

**_JON_ **

****

Jon is puzzled with the barren sight in front of him and by the looks of it so does the rest of soldiers rallying behind him. Not a single person, is present to defend the gate to enter King’s Landing. Tyrion steals an impressed glance towards Varys while Varys’s expression betrays nothing.

“Stay on your guard! We are to march straight to Red Keep. Slays only the enemies and protect the rest!” The last sentence is uttered with a lasting glare towards the Dothraki, only to be received with smug denial and outright disobedience. Jon throws his gaze towards the Unsullied before stopping at Grey Worm who appears to nod, agreeing to what has been said. Upon seizing the last words, they storm towards the capitol.

Jon is met with such a weak resistance by the enemy that the thought that they could have possibly fallen into a trap haunts the back of his head. But they march forward. In his mind, the quicker they manage to bring Cersei to Daenerys, the sooner this war would end, the sooner he would be released from his promise of assisting her. They would owe each other nothing and he would find his way back to his people, to save them or burn with them all.

He cares not whether he lives or dies as long as he is surrounded by his true family.

He looks around as they make progress, and he witnesses the ugly truth of war scattered around him. He is no stranger to war but put Dothraki into the mix and truer horror than death appears. The Dothraki slays all, innocents are damned. When they realized that this war is already favoring their Queen, they step down from their horses and chase after the women to claim them. He stops them forcefully, ending up killing more men turn rapists then Cersei’s soldiers in armor. The moment he sees the Northerners following the vile act, losing their focus, he sees red.

Just before he manages to spit out an order, he hears the roar of the dragon getting closer bringing with him fire that burns the wall that protects the city. The dragon with his rider is perched on the ruins of the first line of defense of the city, eyeing the Red Keep from afar before the frantic ringing of the bell echoes throughout the city, loud and clear, signaling their surrender.

It’s over.

The realization dawns quickly to the Northerners as they stand still, waiting for Jon to speak. The Dothraki is cheering for their Khaleesi, as civilians make a mad dash to save themselves from the madness that has paid them a visit in the form of a dragon.

Jon manages a glance towards the Dragon Queen, realizing that Drogon has unfurled its wings, his head pulls back slightly, in a movement he has learned to participate what would come next.

“No!” He stumbles forward, his effort proven futile. What can he do from that distance?

The Queen would not hear him.

The Queen would not listen.

The city turns to hell. As the smoke begins to fill their lungs, burning them slowly to death, he yells, “Fall back! Fall back!” before he realizes to fall back where? They are surrounded by the Queen’s raging madness with no escape.

_She burns everything, everyone just so that she could claim her seat on the Iron Throne._

**_ARYA_ **

 

Arya, wearing the dead Grey Worm’s face leads the Unsullied away from Jon’s troop, slaying the Lannister’s soldiers along the way. When she is sure no one would notice, she disappears, heading straight to Red Keep. She is tasked with two queens to cross out in her list today. Every second count and this one, this particular queen has offended her personally that she wants to toy with her for a while before killing her.

She hurries, changing her face with a nameless one. She sees a white horse, panicking with the chaos and she reigns the animal, calm him down just enough so that she could ride him and reaches her destination quicker.

She knows the city well. Hours spent chasing stray cats have proven to be meaningful training. Perhaps her teacher has foreseen this day coming. She has avenged the Red Wedding. Today she would avenge Ned Stark beheading.

Arya reaches the entrance and just as quickly, she silences the remaining guards. The toil of the bell is not her concern but the heat she could feel turn her to seek for its source.

_She’s burning the city._

Arya scrambles to finish what she has been dying to do. She enters the castle and it dawns to her that this is the part of the capital that she is not familiar with. She can run through the dark alleys and still find her way back to her quarters back then, but this is new, and this would take much of her precious time in killing Cersei.

She runs, hoping to stumble across a maidservant, a guard or nobles who used to prance around roaming these halls, anyone who knows more about the place. The further she gets inside; she realizes how the castle is already deserted. She fears that Cersei might have left and robbed her from the chance to avenge her father’s death. She spins inside the hall, trying to take a wild guess before she sees that familiar face.

_The Hound._

Arya breathes a relief. She still has one more chance. Sandor knows the castle well. He could help her. She quickly pulls off the nameless mask. He needs to see her face in order for her to get his attention.

The Hound shakes his head at the sight of her, “Go home girl. There’s nothing waiting for you here. Only death.” He picks up his pace, leaving her behind. He too is seeking for his vengeance and the girl will only delay his one opportunity, slipping further the longer he wastes his time here.

“No. I am here to kill her.” her voice defiant. It irks him, at how stubborn she was, how stubborn she is to this day. He stomps his way back to her, grabbing the neck of her clothes, pulling her so close to him that her feet dangle, his spits land on her face as he speaks.

“Look at me!” Arya bulges her eyes, emphasizing that she is in fact looking at him, the entirety of his disfigurement. “If you come with me, you will die. Is that what you want?”

Through clenched teeth, Arya hisses back, “I care very little of what fate waiting for me. As long as she’s dead at my hands.”

Sandor releases her. Realizing that they have both come here, chasing after the same thing. _Revenge._ He understands that much. “For fuck sake. Stay close!”

Arya grins triumphantly.

She follows him, two steps behind him, eyes sweeping the ruins. As they reach a long staircase, Arya sees her target first before Sandor sees his, before she and her guard and her maester made aware of her presence.

Quietly, she slips back to the corner, putting on Jaime’s face. Arya takes three deep breaths, steadying herself from the familiar giddiness she had felt back then as she executed the Freys, knowing that she is so, so close.

Sandor looks back, wanting to urge the girl to leave but she is gone. He hopes she heed his advice, to run, to save herself. He hopes she wouldn’t lose her life in this wretched place.

 

**_CERSEI_ **

Cersei steps down the last of the staircase, her heartbeats beating in a frenzy, one hand shielding her child in her womb from the terror that has been inflicted upon them when suddenly someone grabs her hand, pulling her away.

“Jaime!” She is shocked. She receives news that he is dead in that war he was so willing to sacrifice his life for. Even when she has offered a better option – one that could keep them together, forever.

“Jaime!” She screams louder, pulling her hand free from his tight hold. She wants him to look at her, begging for her to take him back. She wants that. That last hold she has over something now that she has lost everything.

He doesn’t turn, keep pulling her, deeper inside the castle instead of away, climbing yet another staircase. His pace is so quick that she is breathless by the time they reach a forgotten chamber in one of the many towers of the castle.  Only then he releases her.

“I thought you are dead.” A whisper saturated with disbelief and a hint of hope as she places her hands onto his cheeks, her thumb rubbing the stubbles littered across his chin. Cersei stares into his eyes – a glint of something she could name appears, but she brushes it off, clouded with relief that he comes back searching for her.

He presses his hands against hers, “How can I be when you are still breathing?” He walks backward, closer to the high arch window, pulling her with him.

“You shouldn’t have left. You should have stayed with me.” Her voice still carries the same arrogance she has been carrying all her life. She grips his hands hard within hers before she pulls him for a kiss, hoping for a long, passionate kiss with a pair of lips she has become so familiar with.

He doesn’t kiss her back. He stands still as he lets her presses her lips to his. It feels different. She doesn’t have any coherent explanation, but she and Jaime have been together since the very beginning. She could tell when something is off.

She leaps back, her fingers ghosting her lips. “You are not Jaime.”

“I am.” His voice mocks her. His expression is of stranger’s.

“No. I know Jaime the way I know myself. You are not him.”

Cersei appraises the figure in front of him. Jaime’s face but not his expressions. Jaime’s body yet voids from the heat she is very used to.

He takes off the golden hand before he flings it onto her face. She stumbles to the floor from the force, tasting her own blood. She grunts from the pain and when he rushes closer to her, she flinches. He, whoever he is, pulls her up forcefully, grabbing a fistful of the front of her dress before slamming her body against the window breaking its glasses. She would have fallen but his hold is the only thing stopping her from the promised death waiting for her on the ground. Her hands grab onto his extended arm, clawing as she gasps from the tight hold.

His expression is now full of malice. “Who…are…. you?” She manages to splutter that much out. She needs to know.

His grin frightens her. He closes the gap between them, his face so near, eyeing her, enjoying each second she struggles for her dear life.

“The things I do for love…” she gasps. She recognizes that strands of words. Jaime, the real Jaime had said that back in the North. She looks at him, reaching behind his ear, peeling his face off as if it is a mask.

A flash of recognition laced with bewilderment.

“Ned’s feral daughter? Arya….?”

The girl smirks as she listens to the way Cersei chooses to describe her. She tightens her grips, pulling Cersei towards her height, whispering, “….and the lengths I go for vengeance.”

The girl frees her hold. 

 

**_TYRION_ **

****

Tyrion huffs and puffs as he continues his mad dash to save the city. He decides that if he could manage to ensure that the city surrenders, he would be buying what he hopes enough time to find Cersei and sends her away, somewhere safe where she could remain alive rather than settling for death by dragon’s fire.

He could already see the tower. Just a bit more, he told himself. His legs are sore, but he pushes forward gallantly, stumbling every now and then.

The bell rings.

He immediately stops just the way the rest have stopped to understand its implications. The screaming is no longer as loud, but people pick up their pace knowing that now is the small window of opportunity to save themselves, to pick up their children and leave. 

As he turns, making his way to save his sister, he hears the familiar screeches of Drogon before the dragon burns the city.

Drogon roars and it is as if he could hear Daenerys screams ‘Dracarys’.

His feet stuck to the ground, his body rigid, watching the city he has saved before, burns right before his very eyes, right after the bell has been rung. The chaos is deafening as his thoughts somehow travel to the North, pushing forward Sansa’s warning –

_Your Queen is the wildfire. She’ll burn cocks, cunts, whoever dares to stand between her and her whims. Between her and her beloved throne._

How foolish was he, clinging onto the hope that Daenerys Targaryen might be different than her father?

 

**_ THE END _ **

 

The war should be over by now. There is nothing left to be burned. Jon takes in his surroundings, feeling the hot rage building inside him at the sight of innocent men, women, children burnt to ashes. Those who still retained their shape have their mouths opened, mouthing the horrors they are sentenced to endure.

Innocent people paying the price for something they have no control of.

Little children clinging to their fathers, and mothers hoping somehow, they could magically produce enough protection from dragon’s fire. Dragon’s fire brings only destruction. Dragon’s fire seeks to kill.

Ser Davos looks shaken and Jon stops not to prod for more. The things they have witnessed today are enough to haunt them for the rest of their lives. It is vile and even worse than facing the Undead simply because it is unnecessary.

They march, the most of them. They retain their number; the Golden Company’s last-minute disappearance has ensured that.

And now they wait.

Tyrion limps forward, his head hung low. Jon needs not to see his face to learn the disappointment so evident from his posture. Those who still feel, still not fully tainted by the act of war share the same revulsion worn permanently on their faces. Varys, on the other hand, looks different even from this distance. As Jon climbs the stairs, he could see that Varys looks undisturbed, almost smug as if Daenerys has proven to him that she no longer carries the torch to light up a better future for everyone. He supposes that is not a far-fetched conclusion when evidence is being blown by the wind, the smell of death, putrid and permanent, clinging to their bodies.

Jon takes his place, next to Varys as Tyrion makes his way slowly before standing at his other side while Ser Davos stands directly behind him. He hears Tyrion mumbling to himself, his voice distraught. Jon drops to his knee, trying to listen. Initially, he wants to place one hand on Tyrion’s shoulder, but he stops himself, worrying that the other might take such gesture as patronizing. Tyrion stood shaking, his gaze empty.

“I tried to save my sister. When the bell rings I thought I could get to her. The fire, the screaming clouds my mind but I keep walking before I hear a scream from above. It was her. Thrown from the top of the tower.”

“She was thrown...?”

“Thrown! She would… She would claw her way out, fight death itself. She would not succumb.”

“I want to go to her but the crowd…”

Jon knows he is playing the scene of his sister’s death over and over in his mind. A stampede is not something one can survive, especially after being thrown from such height. He places his hand on Tyrion’s shoulder – silent condolence for all that he has lost before he stands up, noticing that Varys has been listening.

The Master of Whisperers speaks to himself yet loud enough for Jon, Tyrion and Ser Davos to hear. “The dragon didn’t kill the lioness. She feasts on sheep instead. She could have gone straight to Red Keep, but she settles for the city.” He finishes his sentence, turning slightly to Jon before he raises his eyebrows as if daring him not to claim the Iron Throne after she has demonstrated what she is capable of today.

But it is necessary.

_We are passed this Jon. It is never about what we want. We never have such luxuries to begin with. We make do with what we have._

He hears Sansa’s voice so clear in his head as if she were standing next to him. Jon closes his eyes, lifting his head up to the sky before he forcefully exhales his breath. This time, he decides to heed her advice.

He nods at Varys. Agreeing.

The eunuch grins triumphantly.

They would plan it well. But they should do it swiftly before she burns yet another city.

Heads turn to the sky as Drogon’s roars echo through the empty capitol void of lives. They all stand in silence. Waiting.

\----------

Daenerys dismounts from the back of her dragon and walks straight to address her champions. Jon observes her in anger and disbelief. Not a single hair out of place, her body is clean despite the unparallel amount of blood she has shed in a single day.

_She doesn’t know. She is not made aware of the destruction she has caused single-handedly. She truly thinks justice is hers to dictate._

The Dragon Queen stands proudly, overseeing the burning city and instead of seeing loss she sees victory. Two Unsullied appear, climbing the stairs. One of them appears to be carrying what Jon assumes is a body since it is covered with a piece of cloth. The other carries a sack gingerly as if it is a gift. He puts together the facts and immediately he whispers to Tyrion to look away.

But Tyrion knows.

The body is laid down in front of the Mother of Dragon while she reaches into the sack and pulls out Cersei’s head for all to see. Bloody, with eyes bulging out from the sockets and her brains dripping to the ground. Daenerys stares at it, satisfaction so evident she almost beamed from it alone. Jon looks away. He has seen much worse, but never once he ever felt the needs to disrespect the dead. He looks away, his eyes settling on staring at Grey Worm who is smiling at the sight. He assumes it is because Cersei is responsible for the death of his beloved Missandei. But the way he smirks, there is something familiar with it…

Grey Worm notices his stare and what more baffling is the way the Unsullied’s leader looks down immediately, as if ashamed he is caught smiling by the leader of the North’s men.

Daenerys’s voice breaks the silence. She throws the head down the stairs, watching it rolling into the ground before she speaks to the rest, in language Jon doesn’t understand. Varys takes the liberty to translate it for him.

_“_ Blood of my blood! You kept all your promises to me. You killed my enemies in their iron suits! You tore down their stone houses!  You have given me the Seven Kingdoms.

 Torgo Nudho, you have walked beside me since the Plaza of Pride. You are the bravest of men, the most loyal of soldiers. I name you commander of all my forces, the Queen’s Master of War.

Unsullied! All of you were torn from your mothers’ arms and raised as slaves. Now you are liberators! You have freed the people of King’s Landing from the grip of a tyrant! But the war is not over. We will not lay down our spears until we have liberated all the people of the world! From Winterfell to Dorne, from Lannisport to Qarth, from the Summer Isles to the Jade Sea, women, men, and children have suffered too long beneath the wheel. Will you break the wheel with me?

 We will no longer hide behind small mercies. The world need not to have choices. We are the only one the world needs. We will choose for them.

Will you build the new world with me?”

If there were any qualms, any second thoughts at toppling her reign before it begins, they are all diminished the moment she mentions Winterfell, sealed with the way she pauses and glares at him. It is not Winterfell she seeks to burn; it is Sansa. His blood boils, his hand is already at the hilt of his dagger, his feet already move towards her. Slowly, dangerously.

\----------

Arya is proud with what she has done. Standing behind the Dragon Queen, wearing the face of her trusted Master of War will make it easier for her to execute her later. She does not bother to listen, but instead, she settles with reading Jon’s expression throughout the speech. She sees horror, frustration before it turns so sudden to potent rage. She recognizes the last look -too often she has worn it herself. That look means blood will soon be spilled and from the way he is eyeing the one who is speaking, she need not to guess anymore. She has planned the Queen’s death differently but now they are all for naught. Jon needs to be stopped.

_Whatever you have to do once you are there, Jon’s hands mustn’t be tainted with her blood for him to claim the throne._

Arya runs, her hand pulling Needle free from its sheath before she pierces Daenerys heart from behind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Reading!


	9. Aetzing (Part 3)

**_NEW DAWN_ **

Jon blinks profusely trying to understand. His hand already wielding the dagger, but it is not his blade that pierces through her, it is Needle. The one he has had made for his little sister Arya. The gasps from the rest, the downing of realization from those standing below, witnessing the sudden eclipse of their Queen’s victory speech matter so little as Jon tries to comprehend one thing; why does Grey Worm of all people decide to kill his Queen while wielding Needle of all weapons he could have laid his hands on?

Daenerys’s gasps break his reverie as she slides to the ground, her fingers hovering over the delicate blade that appears in front of her through her back. Jon catches her before she falls completely. She looks at him, her eyes filled with numb accusation before another hand press firmly over her shoulder, pulling the blade in one swift movement from her body. The pain does not stop Daenerys from turning to look at the one who had betrayed her. Her head follows the steps of said person and as she raises her head, she stifles her sobs and hisses,

“Why"

\----------

Arya stands over the Queen and Jon while holding her most cherished weapon, cleaning the blade from the tyrant’s blood slowly before returning it to its sheath straps neatly at her waist, showcasing to the world the crime she has committed, defiling Unsullied’s reputation in the process, letting every eye see that it is her weapon, not Jon’s that has brought an end to the Queen.

Daenerys splutters blood, her life taking its sweet time to leave the vessel it is contained all this while. Despite holding the queen, Jon’s eyes are fixated at Arya under the guise. He knows. Arya looks at him, realizing that one way or another this is the place where she will die. She will make her death count. She will die wearing someone else’s face.

She sees him, about to say her real name and she quickly silences him as she realized from the corner of her eyes that the rest are coming closer. She looks down at Jon, her left hand gripping the hilt of Needle tightly, waiting for the Unsullied to take her away, or the Dothraki who will be more than eager to tear her body limb from limb.

Or perhaps they would be distracted and end up slaying one another instead of her.

But instead, it is Drogon who decides to avenge his mother. His screeching is thunderous as he flies over them, witnessing the falls of his mother. He whimpers like a lost child, alone and scared. Daenerys swears she will not succumb to death so easily without at least sentencing her killer with the same fate. Gathering the remnants of her passing strength, she gives one last order to her child.

“Dracarys!”

\----------

Jon has had his suspicions. Each time his gaze falls on Grey Worm, the leader will offer him the slightest nod as if acknowledging him. Now with Needle in his hand, beating him to the punch he knows without a doubt that it is her. But Jon realizes it too late. Now the dragon will burn him, burn them for that mistake. He leaps for Arya, pulling her down as he covers her body underneath his. He should have realized sooner but now the fire is already engulfing them, trapping them with no escape. With Drogon unleashing his fire directly above them, they are pushed further to the ground, failing to move even a hair’s breadth.

Trap in such fire which does not shy to rival hell itself, time moves agonizingly slow. He is forced to see Arya burns, forced to listen to her screams, writhing in pain. He wants to tear off the stranger’s face, but he couldn’t move -such is the power of a dragon’s breath.

\----------

Arya sees not the dragon but only redness so close to the color of blood. The way Jon looks at her, the way he has finally recognized her soothes her heart albeit only for a second. She has finished what she has started, and it seems fitting to finally die but the pain…the cursed pain. Never would she have imagined such end for herself. She could feel her skin peeled off, the heat is indescribable, the extension of the devil himself. Her gaze is pleading for Jon to save her, suddenly a child and no longer a killer. But how can he when he couldn’t save himself?

She looks at him. Never will she learn how he has come back alive after greeting death. That is when Arya realizes that he doesn’t burn.

Arya’s eyes widened at him before they are burnt dry. A wolf turns dragon.

_He’ll survive._

With one last effort, now knowing that her last words will not be lost with her last breath, she murmurs, hoping beyond hope that her words would reach her sister who must have been waiting for a reunion.

“Tell Sansa…not today…” as her skin turns crisp and blackened beyond recognition.

\------------

Drogon flaps his wings, tearing the sky, alone, the last dragon of the realms. The burning finally stops. Jon is too numb he couldn’t tell if it is from the burning or the pain of losing Arya. Probably both but he feels the first is pale compared to witnessing the death of his sister. It is Daenerys raspy voice that turns his head away from staring at the corpse beneath his body.

“You…you didn’t burn…how?” her voice dripping with envy.

She applauds herself as the unburnt and yet she burns. Her own child’s fire consumes her. Not as quick as the rest but she learns the hard way that she is not invincible to it. She lost yet another title at this side of the sea.

Jon only notices once he manages to tear his gaze away from Arya. Upon looking at Daenerys and Arya’s state, Jon is made aware of the glaring truth - he has remained untouched by the same element that has claimed more than enough lives today.

Jon stands up, his hands shaking, realizing that the fire has failed to kill him. His breaths turn rapid, the shock shackles him. It brings him back to the day he returns from the dead. He turns to Daenerys, to Varys and the rest hoping someone would have been able to offer an explanation –

“Is this how it feels…? To die from a dragon’s breath? Those poor souls…what have I done...”

Before he manages to beg for an explanation, he sees it. See the light from her eyes disappears and her body still after drawing her last breath.

_Last Targaryen._

His knees buckle under the weight he has willingly accepted to carry just before.

 

\-----------

“Jon lives.” Bran’s voice has been eerily calm as he tells Sansa everything that is happening in King’s Landing. The unnecessary deaths bring an undulating tremor to Sansa that she simply fails to process, to anticipate what could happen next. But one thing is certain.

“It is over,” she repeats the sentence that was trapped within her since she has been tormented long after she left Winterfell – her dying hope and prayers before she finally lost faith. She repeats it over and over and over hoping that they will be sunk deep into her memories, etch there permanently and still she carries doubt within her.

She stands up, the stagnant air inside Bran’s chamber is stifling. The deaths of innocent people at the hands of Daenerys only solidify her stands that Jon would be a better ruler, a much kinder ruler. She opens the window as wide as possible, looking down and realizing that those people down there, busy with their assigned tasks, they know nothing. For them, the war against the undead is their last war. How does it feel to be ignorant of the consequences of the war far South when it truly is able to implicate all? Should Daenerys live, they could have fared the same fate befallen onto the people in King’s Landing. Ashes heaping on the white snow, marring its purity with death.

Doesn’t matter now, the war is over. Sansa draws in a long relief breath, her eyes close. The coldness fills her lungs and it is as if she can taste a faint sweetness in the air.

Cersei’s death turns out to matter so little to her. She is not hungry for a feast to celebrate the fall of her tormentor. She realizes that she simply doesn’t care. But still, she is relieved. Jon has survived, and Arya can come home now. She will make sure her sister will stay for good.

Sansa turns, allowing herself a small, sheepish smile. “I hope Arya finds her way home quickly. I learned that she has fallen in love with somebody. Do you kn- Oh, of course you know. You know everything.”  

Too soon. Too soon she has begun to orchestrate a happy end for everyone.  

Bran pulls his fingers into a tight ball of a fist. While he has accepted his fate to be the Three-Eyed Raven, there are times he could feel that the old Bran still exist. The part of him that has a family. The part of him that is his mother’s favorite. Seeing a glimpse of Sansa that he is familiar with, smiling and daring enough to hope for a happy ending brings out that part of him. But it will be cruel to let that joy burns brighter. Not with what he knows already.

“Arya told Jon to tell you, not today.” Bran hopes that Sansa’s ingenious mind will stop him from saying it outright.

“She’s alive then?” but if she is, why would Bran tell her this encrypted message she has shared with Arya?

Bran repeats himself, slowly, letting the news sink slowly instead of drenching Sansa with a new wave of grief. “Sansa. She told Jon, not…today.”

Sansa takes a step back as she contemplates. She looks at Bran and his very patient expression as if waiting for her to make the connection. An understanding sweeps so swiftly that Sansa feels her breath is knocked out of her. She could feel what is left of her heart shatter to pieces. _Her little sister…_

She cocks her head to one side, almost childlike with tears brimming in her eyes, hoping still that she has somehow misinterpreted it.

“Not today…?” her voice breaks. _Not today she can’t say such to the God of Death?_

“No. Not today.”

“I’ve warned you, Sansa. I’ve told you; you can never save us all.” Bran’s voice almost pleading.

If there was anything inside her stomach, she would have sworn she would vomit all out. But empty stomach does not stop her from dry heaving, clutching her chest, the pain rooting itself firmly causing her to bend as she tries to absorb the news.

“You did,” She manages to croak that much. She steadies herself, one hand against the wall before she erects herself straight, as expected of a lady. “And I told you I am willing to pay the price no matter how steep.” She gathers herself. She should have known better. No one can protect anyone. Sansa wipes her eyes dry. Her breath still shaky but she forces herself to remain intact, standing rigid in front of her brother. Bran observes her cautiously. He would rather have her succumb to her feelings, to cry her eyes dry but Sansa has long learned that tears would never offer her absolute solace.

“Sansa, it's alright to cry…I am here. Your brother is still here.” His voice gentle, coaxing.

The silence between them stretches as Sansa deals with the voices inside her head, blaming her for daring to hope, blaming her for thinking she knows better, for being greedy.

_My fault._

“No.” She pulls her fur closer before she tries to pat the wrinkles on her dress straight. “What right do I have to mourn her when I am the one who has sent her to Death’s doorstep?”

Her eyes empty and Bran sighs.

“Will this set things in motion?” her voice turns firm as she asks for confirmation. She must not lose sight as to why this happens in the first place.

“Yes. This will. From here it will only get easier.” Bran assures her.

“Will he rise and be a good king?” Sansa’s eyes pierce through him, but the hauntingly clear blue appears to be begging for assurance that all they have lost will at least birth something good.

Bran nods.

“Then so be it.” Her skirt swishes against the stone floor and she leaves.  

That is the moment Bran witnesses the complete transformation of Sansa from porcelain to ivory.

\----------

The smoke clears leaving him as the only survivor of Drogon’s wrath. People begin to whisper about the impossible thing they have witnessed today. Ser Davos, Varys and Tyrion stand behind him in a loose semi-circle.

The true unburnt looks at those men who are staring at him. The path he has taken, the choices he has made has brought him so far from home to this moment, in this position. He would be a fool to turn his back from his responsibility.

_You are good at this. At ruling._

The bastard who is an heir now rises to claim his birthright.

“I am Aegon Targaryen. I have died and reborn, forged by the dragon’s breath. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. I am your King.”

\----------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello and Happy Reading.


	10. Twill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now they are back together, my/our precious JonSa. Do leave comments, I tweak the setting already. Til the next chapter. Happy Reading!

_Twill_

_A type of fabric which has a distinct pattern of parallel ribbing usually made of cotton or polyester. Because of the structure of the ribbing, it is a durable fabric._

_\----------_

Highgarden.

Jon has sent countless letters home but the only ones receiving replies are those signed as King. He is waiting for her to reply but receive none so far. Today of all days there is a letter from Winterfell and Jon rushes to retrieve it from Ser Davos’s hand, hoping to see Sansa’s familiar handwriting.

Disappointment is an understatement when he realizes that it is not from her.

_My cousin Jon,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. North is rebuilding. Sansa is fully driven to see it restored to its former glory. It costed her own wellbeing. I am afraid for her. She forces herself to give meaning to everyone’s death. To offer meaning to this position she has inherited. It’s exhausting…to watch._

_I think all of us still, at times, see her as Sansa who wishes on finer things, wishes to be queen. People keep feeding her lemon cakes when she has outgrown its taste, claiming it is vile and reminiscent of her days in King’s Landing. She whispers that to me with a chortle after yet another slice of it served after dinner. Some want to believe she is the same little lady, roaming the castle with her dreams of a knight in shining armor. A token of a reminder of times when war is unthinkable. She smiles, she nods, she understands why people still see her that way – people are trying to cope still from the war that has ravaged us all too sudden._

_But I look at her and see what’s been done to her, I realize that my sister dies long ago. Or at least part of her.  I think she begins to question her dream the moment Lady paid the price with her life. But she was too young to completely let go of that dream, not knowing of other possibilities._

_I look at her and I know at times she wonders why death refuses her. I don’t have it in me to tell her how much good is waiting for her because she would believe none of it. She dares not to hope for anything, anymore. Losing Arya pained her to a point of devastation. She stops hoping even for your return. Worry not, she understands why you need to be away. It takes more than a claim to restore order in a world ransacked by madness._

_In the end, it is her pain that calls me back to the surface. Seeing her making conscious decision to rise each day when she drowns with each sleep - I must help. For all the time her brothers have failed to save her, I must step up, even with the very little I can do._

_When the time is right , when you can afford to stay for quite some time in the North, come home. Come home and be there for her._

_Bran_

He places the letter on the table, knowing that it will be long before he could return. His responsibilities mandated him to be away. The North is already in a very capable hand while the rest needs more assurance that he could promise peace and remain unchallenged while doing so.

He hopes she will wait for him.

\----------

Winterfell.

Sansa has a mountain of scrolls she needs to respond to and that would easily trap her for hours within her solar. A gentle knock on the door steals her attention away from her responsibility. She straightens her back, preparing herself to have some lord’s name announced before a face appears behind the door.

“Gendry. What a pleasant surprise. Do come in.” He closes his door behind him and stands facing Sansa. Before she has the time to gesture for him to take a seat, he speaks,

 “I am leaving Lady Sansa.”

She leans towards the back of her chair as she listens to not a request, but a decision already made by him. Losing Arya brings them closer and the rebuilding of the North has included Gendry as a very prized set of hands with a set of skills much needed to assist them. She can look at him in the eyes and she could see the pain she feels reflected in his.

“Where to?” Upon knowing that Arya has left him permanently, Gendry has decided to stay. To honor her home through rebuilding it. Sansa once had reminded him of his position granted by Daenerys, but he shook it away, mumbling something about how he need not such position and power. What he needs, he has lost.

Gendry takes his time knowing that it is not a matter of where to but why. She is asking for why now when it seems before he has had the mind to stay in the North forever. “The King is returning, and I don’t want to be reminded of how much I wish it is Arya who get the chance to return instead of him.”

The edge of her lips rises just a fraction. She appreciates Gendry’s honesty and his reluctance to hide behind the long winded explanation. “The North will lose a great blacksmith.”

He beams. He is indeed proud of what he is capable of doing with his hands. “I will travel. Perhaps I’ll return someday, not because the North needs me but simply because I miss the cold.”

She nods. Losing trusted people is never a surprise for her anymore. It is not the question of if but when. Sansa looks at him, waiting for his goodbye. She is surprised when he continues to speak.

“I’ve finished a gift of sort. As a way of saying goodbye.” He looks proud. Sansa assumes whatever it is it must have been something he has worked on tirelessly and yield the expected result.

She stands up as he opens the door for her. Ghost follows closely from behind. His presence severs the needs for Sansa to have a personal guard. She much prefers the dire wolf than actual people. They walk together, side by side, with him leading the way. While walking, he tells her the one thing he has never shared with another soul.

“The night the Queen of Ashes honored me with the title lord, I went to Arya, asking her hand in marriage. I want her to be my lady as I claimed what had been given to me.”

Sansa is surprised to learn that he had proposed to her. Not that she has any doubt that Arya too fancied him, but she never sees the possibility of marriage so soon. She places her palm on his shoulder as a way to placate the pain still aching within, made obvious with his morose intonation.

“I should have known better. Arya never had any intention to be a lady. She loves to be as free as spirit. With no roots holding her back. I should have followed her.”

Sansa grits her teeth. Her guilt is pushing down her own aching.

“But I didn’t.” he continues. He has grown too used to her silence. Lady Sansa barely speaks to anyone anymore, but she listens well, knowing when it is appropriate to interject or simply lends her ears.

“And we both lost her.” he ends it just as soon as the gods wood is clear at sight. Sansa muffles her sharp intake of breath as she sees a beautiful pavilion under the weir wood tree. It blends well with its surrounding. Instead of standing out, stealing the beauty of the sacred space, it stands as part of it as if it has always been there.

“I built this because when I asked her to be my wife, I’ve already envisioned us, exchanging vows under a pavilion. It would be here during spring, where flowers are blooming, birds chirping.”

“But halfway through building, I thought I want to keep that to myself.” They walk closer towards the structure, with him pointing out what he has changed. “I make it simpler. Stone based to withstand even the blizzard. Four columns with open beamed ceiling. Helping to rebuild gives me fresh ideas.”

They climb the three steps that give the structure rise from the ground. A swing is attached to the ceiling with four thick chains and it is moving back and forth as Sansa pushes it gently.

 “I add swing to it. So you can rest. It can be your safe place and I built it sturdy enough to withstand even Ghost’s weight.”

This time her smile reaches her eyes but only for a second. She values this friendship she has with him so she should be content no matter how brief it is. It is time to let go.

“Thank you, Gendry. How thoughtful.” She sits down on the swing, pushing herself gently with the tips of her toes.

He is glad about her reaction. He has had the chance to mourn Arya, but she has been swept through torrents of events and responsibilities and further loss that should one decide to closely observe, the pain could actually be felt emanating from her. “It’s never my place to assume, my Lady, but I truly hope you’ll find happiness. You’ve lost her, not soon after you lost your brother.”

Folding her palms on her lap, Sansa smiles the same smile she has given the rest of Winterfell. Hollow yet with a glare that makes one question not the sincerity behind it.

“I will take my leave then.” He allows himself one last look around the godswood before his eyes rest on the face marking the weir wood tree.

“May the old Gods ease your pain dear Arya’s sister.”

\----------

Sansa pushes the swing gently, patting the empty seat next to her, inviting the king’s dire wolf to join her. Ghost is skeptical – placing one paw on the seat before pushing it, moving to the floor as it doubts its durability. Sansa chuckles before she sends her gaze away, following the back of the man who has loved her sister so much. Sansa wonders if it is sinful to wish he finds happiness with someone else. Would that count as a betrayal?

She leans back and closes her eyes. Loneliness is nothing foreign to her but being left alone in her own home clutches her heart with extreme misery. She could not leave. This is her home, the one place she has truly experience pure happiness. Here is where she will stay until the end of time. That much she is sure of.

The rocking of the swing, the cold wind that pats her skin ever so gently lulls her to sleep.

A short escape.

\----------

The Lady of Winterfell, the Warden of the North roams the hall alone, making sure the preparations for the King’s arrival would be unrivaled, fit for a king while also respecting the amount she has limited for the occasion. Few servants bustle around her, making sure the lady would be pleased with every minute details. Other lords have been lining up outside, waiting. The same way everyone waited for King Robert’s arrival. The same way everyone waited for the Queen of Ashes’ arrival. But perhaps the atmosphere was not as welcoming for the latter and she wonders – one of the many ifs she handles at night; if things were handled more graciously, if she had been kinder, if she had shown restraints and let go what she has selfishly desired, would that be enough to put a stop to the Queen’s descent to madness?

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

She turns, sweeping the hall with a quick glance. Satisfied, she glides through the aisle, pulling her cloak tighter over her thin frame – ever-smaller now from the rationing and the effort to provide enough for those she is responsible for. Fourteen moons have passed since King’s Landing turns ashes. A lot has happened since then. Ravens have traveled between the North and the current King, carrying words of advice from both sides. The king has traveled, spending time in each realm, learning their different ways and leading while still respecting the different values cherished - learning from the past Queen’s mistakes, and her successes. She too has traveled while not being so far off, but still, she left her home to deliver the punishment befit those who have betrayed their oath time after time – Lord Glover.

The beginning to rebuild was strenuous. But making do with what she has, has always been her forte. She gathers all that’s left from Stark’s coffer, combined with other dead houses of the North for what for the gold kept safe if not to serve the still living? Eventually, the effort is worthwhile. They are beginning to reap what they have carefully sowed and oh, it is auspiciously bountiful. The trades she pursued between wildlings work as intended. Perhaps too soon to be comfortable with but it works for the time being. She has even succeeded to pursue the rebuild of North’s long-dead fleet but that stirs an issue between other realms, accusing the North of trying to be independent. She tried then, appeasing others with ways she knows how but eventually it was the King that put an end to others’ concern and that is the final seal that assures her that her king has learned his ways to speak like a true politician.

_That her king has no longer needed her councils._

Her last encounter with her King was brief. It took place at King’s Landing or rather the remnants of what was once her prison, moments before he was set to sail to Dragonstone. She remembers everything about the encounter – the stormy weather, rolling waves threatening to swallow the ships, his cloudy eyes, his curls moving recklessly with the rough wind, his shoulders wilting, heavy with the burden he carries as the rightful heir of the Iron Throne. She remembers everything except for what has been said. Something has shifted between them, ghosting whatever strands that used to bind them together.

She could name it.

She could name _her_ , the one that put an end to the Queen’s madness.  

His and her most cherished sister, now gone because she had instructed her to face Death.

She could feel the familiar throbbing, the pressure behind her eyes, the growing heat as she tries to stop herself from feeling, keeping herself devoid of any feelings as they drag her down making her wish for death who seems to have come for every Stark but her. She blinks profusely, gritting her teeth as the headache worsen. With her long fingers massaging her temple in an attempt to free herself from the unyielding pain, she could already visualize the recurring disappointment in the king’s eyes, to be reminded by his little sister’s death when he meets her.

Imagine such feeling multiply by ten folds when he learns she has killed Bran too.

\----------------

She shudders as the cold wind shakes her free from the lull of the past. Always, always she has to remind herself that Jon Snow has slipped from her grasp the moment he set sail to the South. He is now Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

He is never hers to claim.

She understands that much and paired with the last ambiguous look they had shared; she knows enough to expect a cold king that would not forgive her sin and her betrayal. Why should he when she deserves every single nuance of hatred anyone can possess? What she did is despicable. She acknowledges that much.

She had played god. Sentencing Daenerys to death, pushing for Jon to become the king while breaking her promise to keep the secret. Arya’s death. Guilt is immense but she does not regret it. The realm is healing from the scarring made by wars, one after another. Now they are beginning to see peace, evident in their lives. The purchase for it is successful, and she is scrambling to pay the price as a mere mortal, of guilt and loneliness as her constant companion.

_Guilt, guilt, guilt._ Staining each second of the day.

With such thought in her mind, sewed permanently deep into her bones, she is truly taken aback when the King rushes towards her, with emotions so palpable in his eyes, of those she is no longer capable to distinguish, pulling her close to his chest while breathing her name.

“Sansa…”

His deep, familiar voice startles her to the core. It has been so long, so painfully long that someone has called her such, it freezes her. Her hands lay limp by her side as the King tightens his embrace on her body, sealing it with a kiss against her forehead.

For a split second, she lets her greed takes control of her body, basking in such tenderness before she hastily reminds herself how undeserving she is of such warmth. She extricates herself from his unbending arms, pulling herself together before she curtsies graciously,

 “Winterfell is yours, Your Grace.”

\-----------------

They are down by the crypt, the two of them. Ghost is guarding the entrance while they are paying respect to the Starks that have left so soon. Jon realizes that Sansa has had their statues made and he walks pass each slowly, stopping and appreciating the small details that bring life to the stone version of their family members. Sansa must have been overseeing the task of carving so very closely. The details are remarkable, almost life-like.

Of Robb Sansa has had him made standing in the exact stature of Ned Stark, but with one hand holding his sword with its point stabbing the ground while the other appears to carry a small babe partially hidden behind Robb’s cloak.

“Robb’s babe would have been a handful. What is the name of his wife? The North has not been so kind when they refer her.” Jon tries his best to coax more words from Sansa.  her cold reaction when he rushes to hug her hurts him a bit but he pushes it away. A year has passed. Changes are something to be expected but she looks so different and so thin it worries him. 

“Talisa,” Sansa replies shortly as she follows him yet making sure there is a distance between them. Jon wonders if the gap is the physical manifestation of the distance between them that she wishes him to respect.

He moves along. He has time to heed Bran’s advice now.

Of Rickon she had made him with a smile on his face, with Shaggydog too, standing close to one another. Jon could not shake his guilt of failing to save him. if he closes his eyes he could see Rickon running to him, with Ramsay's gleeful smile far behind as he docked his arrows and maimed his brother. 

Arya’s statue looks ready to fight, one hand carved to look as if she is about to draw her favorite weapon, Needle. Her feet apart, ready to face her enemy. Jon places his palm gently against the side of her face. He misses her. His little sister that dies wearing a different face. For him. That will haunt him for the rest of his life. So close and helpless. The fact that he survives only make the matter worse. He has failed. Time spent away made him realizes that each monumental battle that altered the course of events leading him to this position have had the women with the name of Stark rising and saving his hind. He is ashamed.

Bran’s is standing tall with a smile reminiscing of the time before his fall. His expression no longer resigned and all-knowing but filled with eagerness, anticipating what tomorrow might bring. His hands behind him. Standing proud.

“I am sorry I did not come back the moment I received your raven informing me about Bran’s death. We were sailing and when I received it so much time has passed in between.”

“I don’t hold it against you, Your Grace.” He notices how she looks restless. Hands suddenly busy adjusting her cloak before hovering gently over her hair, pulled back to a bun resting by the nape of her neck, adorned with simple white ribbon.

He realizes he never sees her with her hair coif in such way.

“Shall we leave?” Sansa breaks his stare with her taut voice. “The lords are very eager to see you.”

Listening to her voice laced with unexplained anger, he has now convinced something is off.

_Not now,_ he reminds himself.

“Of course. After you Sansa.”

Sansa turns on her heels, heading for the exit just as swiftly. Jon lets her be. He recognizes that aloofness even when they are separated by the sea. He sees through it. Her pain. To lose everyone she wants to save and care for. Bran’s death is too sudden. Dying in his sleep not three moons after they have just lost Arya. He shares those pain, but he knows enough to give her space and time. He is about to leave, staying a few lingering seconds in front of Arya’s and Bran’s statues before he draws a long sigh.

_So much have been lost._

He turns to follow Sansa before his eyes caught sight of what he assumes a statue, covered with a white cloth. It is not placed on the plain sight, far from the rest of the Starks. Intrigue, he walks toward it, extending his fingers as he removes the covering.

It is a statue of a woman, kneeling, with her palms against one another. Her fingers intertwined, pulled close to her chest as if praying. Jon goes through the list of Starks’ women whose stories have been passed down from one generation to the other wondering if he has missed any. He returns his gaze to the kneeling woman and notices that this one is fairly new. Made by the same hands that have carved the newly erected Starks’ effigy. The intricate detailing of the hair despite the simplicity of its style is somewhat familiar. He crouches down, trying to get a clearer view of the face.

His breaths turn shallow.  

The statue wears Sansa’s face.

\---------------

The next morning, everyone gathers in the hall, eating their fill before the day begins in earnestly. Jon waits for her arrival. Realizing that it might be possible that she is tired from the eventful day yesterday, he begins eating while sharing conversations with other lords and Maester Wolkan who is seated not too far from him. The lords are very much pleased with the progress, complimenting Sansa and her abilities to oversee the whole process.

Jon could not help but beam proudly.

Time goes by and the rest begin to excuse themselves from the hall. But Sansa does not appear. Jon starts to worry, and he decides to press on the matter with Sansa’s closest advisor, Maester Wolkan himself.

“Where is Lady Sansa? Is she having her meal in her chamber?” he pushes his empty plate away as he reaches out for a glass of water.

“Lady Sansa begins her day at noon Your Grace.” the loyal maester informs him. That information does not sit well with Jon. It raises too many questions of its validity as if the maester is describing a stranger.

“She is an early riser. Always have been.  Since when?”

“Since the death of young Lord Bran. She spends her night either with reading or replying letters, managing the household and the North. She... she doesn’t sleep at night. Not anymore. She once said it doesn’t do her well to shut her eyes into darkness and opens her eyes to another kind of darkness.”

“That is…not healthy.” Jon’s voice heavy with concern.

“Nor does supplying her with sleeping drought. She tried those before until I put a stop to it. I don’t want her to fully depend on it.” The elder man releases a sigh before he continues. It seems he too shares his worry over the young Warden of the North. “I advise her as I see fit Your Grace. She gives me an ultimatum – either gives her the sleeping draught or let her sleep till midday.”

“Why don’t I receive a raven regarding this?” He could hear the answer already, but he asks away nevertheless.

“You are much needed there, Your Grace. Despite all that has happened, no one questions how she fares very well leading the North. I think part of it because she wouldn’t allow anyone to doubt her capabilities, to see her as weak.”

The maester looks around, making sure they are not joined in by another set of ears. His voice drops lower, making sure his words will only have the king as its’ recipient.

“But yes, the death of her brother crushes her. She’s…different. The only time anyone could see a glimpse of her smile is when she is playing with the children, away from prying eyes. Children are the only beneficiary of her warmth and smile and laughter. Though the last one is a rare gift, even for the children.”

Jon offers his gratitude over the information before he quickly leaves the hall, heading to where she is. 

_Sansa, what has happened to you?_

 --------------

Sansa wakes up startled. Her body drenches with sweat and tears all mingled together, dampening her bed’s covering. She springs out from her bed, shaking, trying to calm herself down before sheer panic take over her. She tears her fur from the bed, throwing it to the floor. Her hair is sticking to her face and she pushes it back all while pacing nervously – nightmares are a common guest in her sleep and sometimes it could feel too real to her liking. She searches for the window; it is bright outside.

She's awake.

_A dream. It is just a dream._

She sits down, rubbing her hands together, taking a fleeting glance at it before her heart stops. 

_No…_

Her hands are covered with blood still warm. 

She closes her eyes, again and again, chasing the image away but the red is still there and now she can smell it too. She turns slowly, daring herself to look at her bed and she sees it - Bran lying on a mattress soaked with blood, a dagger plunged into his chest.

_Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me…_

Her voice, raspy from sleep turns hoarse from screaming at the horror she has played a vital part in. Someone rushes through the door but before she could beg for help her sight turns black and she falls onto the ground.

 -------------


	11. Tear

_“Do you really see everything Bran?” Sansa found her ways to include Bran in her hectic schedule. At times they would stay in her solar until the crack of dawn. Other times, she would sneak to the kitchen, grabbing a few pastries before she knocked on the door of his chamber. Spending time together distracted her from mourning Arya’s death. It was painful and she did not wish to go there as long as she could hold it in, postponing the inevitable._

_"Yes.” Bran was still a man of very few words. But every now and then she would see the glint in his eyes that reminded her of her mischievous little brother who was consumed with climbing and scaling the castle.it was as if he was resurfacing, finding his way home._

_“So you know the future?” Sansa poured him a glass of wine. It was late, they were having late supper just the two of them in Bran’s chamber._

_He took a sip before he spoke, “What do you want to know?”_

_“Do I dare to swallow whole what I’ll learn?”_

_“No.”_

_“Then keep it to yourself.”_

_He held his goblet against his lap, tilting it in a circle, watching the wine swirled yet just before it spilled, he moved it in a different direction. “It’s a burden. But I do enjoy the jabs you offered Jeoffrey. Mocking him like that takes a different kind of bravery.”_

_"Which one is your favorite?” Sansa broke a small piece of the bread in front of her, offering the rest to Bran. He took it, taking a bite before he answered her._

_“A lot but if I have to pick one, I would say when you egged him to lead the battle where it is the thickest. There is this stupid face he made. I am not sure if you notice it.”_

_“I remember that face.”_

_Sansa sent her gaze to the fire, trying to recall the scene. “He is cruel and abhorrent but truer word has not been spoken; he is stupid indeed.”_

_They finished their modest supper before Sansa cleared everything away. She helped Bran to prepare for bed, taking off his boots and transferring him to his bed as gently as possible. It was hard work, but she didn’t mind it in the slightest. She tucked him in, and Bran almost rolled his eyes. Sansa knew Bran was always annoyed with the way she insisted on treating him as if he was still a child. But with the lost years between them, with only two of them surviving, Sansa felt the need to make up for the warmth a sister could have offered her little brother. After a while, he gave in, only offering her the occasional tsk or his most sincere form of eye rolls._

_But Sansa knew deep down he appreciated it. That was why she continued. She sat at the edge of the bed quietly. Not waiting for anything to happen but to just sit and be surrounded by peace from having her brother with her. Three-eyed raven or not, he’s Bran to her._

_"How does it feel Bran? Knowing everything yet…” yet not able to do anything about it? But the last part remained unspoken, trapped between her lips._

_“It feels like being a cripple.” Sansa paused, unsure if he was merely jesting or lamenting before she heard him laughing. She joined in too, her reaction delayed by a few seconds. She shook her head, chastising his choice of words before she stood up to leave. She bent over, kissing Bran’s forehead._

_“Sansa, I am 18.” Bran looked at her disapprovingly._

_“And yet you will always remain my brother. We’ll grow old together in this home. You can be 50 and I will still tuck you into bed. Or do you want me to sing lullaby too?”_

_Bran looked at her, his eyes round with mocked horror._

_A slight curve appeared on her lips before she left her brother to rest._

_\--------------_

_Bran watched his sister left the room before he immediately freed his right arm from the tight blanket covering him, pushing his sleeve above his elbow. He could feel the old mark pulsating painfully. He could feel the sharp cold of his grip as his skin turned red and angry._

_He’s finding his way back, the mark he had left guiding him to the surface._

_\---------------_

Sansa feels a damp cloth pressed gently across her forehead. She shoves it away, hissing at the slight bump at the side of her head. With her hands by her side supporting her, she pushes her still swaying body upright. She notices his hand first, clutching the damp cloth. She could feel the dip on her mattress from the weight of his body.

_Of all people, it has to be him._

A rigid smile is plastered across her face before she looks at him. Her back is straight as an arrow, her hands folded neatly across her lap ready to deny whatever it is that he has witnessed.

His jaw tightens at her pompous display of denial.

“Your Grace, this is my chamber,” reminding him how improper of him to barge in without permission.

Jon lets that remark slides. “You were screaming. What happened?”

“We all have demons lurking behind our minds. Sometimes they escaped.” Her answer seems very well versed off as if it has always been kept at the edge of her tongue when such a question arises. Jon is not satisfied with it; it is not enough to even help him identify the real issue that is building a wall between them.

“Sansa, please. Talk to me. Is it about Bran?”

Her movement halts. _Did he know?_ She stares at him, trying to decipher the look on his face before she is certain that he couldn’t simply have known. She can be good at keeping secrets too. She leaves her bed, half-listening to his words, explaining why he couldn’t be back so soon as she moves around the room, preparing to begin her day. What she needs is a bath to clean herself from any trace of her nightmare but seeing that Jon has decided to stay in her chamber, she must be the one leaving it. She washes her face, simply splashing the cold water onto her skin. She needs to be quick before she caves in to his presence, to whatever offerings he has as he bargains for a little piece of what he knows not yet- the revolting secret she has vowed would die with her. She would have offered it to him gladly but the looks of betrayal and repugnance that would soon appear after what he has learned will kill her if she is not already dead enough on the inside. Her hands fling open her cupboard, simply grabbing the nearest attire she has with all the pieces needed and she turns so sharp, facing him.

“I am going to get dressed. Will you please leave Your Grace?” _Please, please, please Jon just go._

“Not until you let me in.” his answer is not a surprise to her. Given the right issue, Jon could be very obstinate. But even when his answer is expected, it does not stop Sansa from losing her control.

“You are already inside my chamber! What more do you need?!” her voice almost hysterical. It is painful as she realizes how much her control wavers with his return. She is so close to becoming steel, hard and unbending but comes him near it feels like being plunged into the forge yet again restarting the whole process. She feels weak. She feels as if she is shaking with all emotions she has been almost successfully suppressed as moons passed. If there is one thing she is sure of, she would not be able to withstand its waves. It will wash away whatever dignity she is left with.

“You know exactly what I mean. You are treating me like a stranger Sansa! Stop this, stop! Please!” It only takes him two strides to reach her and hold her hands in his, pleading for her to realize that he is there for her. Forced to stop, she takes a good look at him with the same intensity that he possesses as he looks at her, relearning that face she has always called for when she sinks too deep into her scarred mind. Her heart aches for him but she holds it all in – the perfect punishment for her sins.

Yet still, she crumbles. She covets what she could when given the slightest chance for her to ration enough to stay alive and the sight of him offers such to her. She has denounced hope, claiming that mankind has put it so far high up on the pedestal, it makes people believe that today’s grief will be replaced with happiness tomorrow when it is never the case. But she still has embers of it flickering – she couldn’t wipe it all even when she chants to herself on how dangerous hope is. The two of them stand there, unmoving, breathing in each other's presences. She notices how his hair has grown longer but not made obvious because of his curls. Her gaze rakes over his features and the lines on his face steal her fullest attention. They have multiplied and some deepen from the last time she truly sees him.

_He has his own share of sufferings…I do this to him._

_He doesn’t need any more from me._

She wrenches her hands free, gripping her dress before she repeats herself.

“I am going to get dressed. Will you please be kind enough to offer me privacy Your Grace?” her words came out stilted from her gritted teeth.

Sansa’s insistence to refer to him using his title instead of calling his name grates his ears so much he would not question it if they bleed. His pining turns into great unabated frustration.

“No.” His answer absolute, uncontested. 

Sansa releases a shaky breath before she peels off her shift in front of him. He is staggered with her stubbornness. More so when he realizes how thin she is, how much worse her scars look, scattered on almost every inch of her body. His hands curled into fists, his eyes trained on her, piercing straight into her challenging eyes before he finally turns his back to her, offering her the most of privacy he could while still being in the same room as her.  

He looks to his feet, defeated. As much as he wants to pull her into his arms, he knows things will only escalate. Frighten that it might even escalate to a point of no return, he attempts to dig for an answer, tracing what could have been his unforeseen mistakes. “What did I do wrong? I sent letters, none of it receives a reply unless it is sealed with the king’s seal. I thought we are…I thought we lo-“

Sansa screams to herself to not listen to any of his pleads. She sat down in front of the mirror, grabbing the hairbrush with unnecessary force before she runs it through her hair violently, yanking free all the knots – the aftermath of her nightmare. She pulls it back into a tight plait before she pulls it into a bun at the nape of her neck, securing it with a clip she simply grabs from where she usually keeps her hair ornaments, flinging the lid away in the process. She doesn’t have time for something more intricate. She needs to leave now. Standing up, she picks up the strayed lid, throwing it on top of the box that house all her treasured trinkets, not bothering to see how jumbled they all are now.

“Let me help you.” Jon stops her from leaving. His hand holding her wrist gently, matching his now calm voice.

“How?” She looks at him, waiting for an answer because if she is being honest with herself she is very much aware of how irreparable the damages inflicted to her after Bran’s death.  

Flipping thoughts seem to fill his mind, of plans not well thought made observable through the hardened reflection from his clear grey eyes.  

She presses him again, taking one step closer.

“How do you plan to help me, Your Grace? What grand plan do you have exactly, do tell I’m intrigued.”

Caught off guard, Jon remains silent.

“You see Your Grace, you are the king of the seven realms but in this realm of madness, and betrayal and self-loathing I am the one true Queen.” She raises her hand, before pulling it deftly, free from the warmth offered by his skin. Her voice is dripping with a raw warning, for him to stay away from her for good.

“Please leave me be. You don’t want to be with me. You don’t have to..."

Her intonation shifts slightly, not as demanding, almost begging for him to stay away for his own good. That minute change gives him a new breath, to try one more time to ease her pain. “I can help. I can try. I want to.”

Jon is persistent and she almost falters. Desperate for him to save himself, purely believing that she is doomed and will drag all that remains close to her, she decides to be cruel. To break and wipe the slate clean from all lingering feelings he has for her.

She offers him her most cunning gaze, her voice turns amused, mocking. “Why would you? We never agree to any kind of arrangement. And I never see you any more than a means to do what needs to be done.”

She could almost hear his heart ripped open courtesy of her poisonous words. Possibly because hers is torn much more violently from speaking of what she knows is not the truth. Jon takes a step back, his eyes filled with blatant refusal and disbelief.

She decides a tear wouldn’t be enough, she needs to make sure he would question his feelings towards her and despise her in total.

“After all, I am Ramsay Bolton’s wife. I am always cunning and I can be very, very manipulative simply because I had learned from the best. You are a king because I made you a king.” He doubts her intention, but her words remain a choking blow.  

 ---------------

She does not stay to see the words sink in. She walks away as fast as she could. The best thing she could do now is to hope that he would leave. Find his happiness somewhere and reminds herself that it is her own doing that destroys what they have to one another.

\----------------

His feet remain rooted to the floor within her chamber even when she has left him for quite some time. She states that she has just been using him, the same way he has manipulated Daenerys into fighting his war.  

 _Lies_.

He does not believe her, does not want to believe her. But she speaks with such conviction that would sway perhaps even Varys. His belief is stirred even when he refuses to allow her words to poison his heart. He sits down in front of her mirror, tracing back each exchange, trying to see them from a different perspective but the hurt in his chest demands attending to.

This is not the way he envisioned their reunion. He has held off returning because he wants to prove that he could rule, bringing much-sought peace – just the way Sansa has faith in him leading the North. Her falling into his arms is not what he expected but such coldness? Far from his mind.

He tries to reason. Ice cold reception paired with sudden spat that is heated out of nowhere is an odd pairing. If that is not enough, Sansa proudly referring to herself as that bastard’s wife is a weak blow meant to hurt yet very superficial that even he himself can see right through it. This is Sansa not having complete control of her emotion the same way this chamber had witnessed time before when they had shared their kisses.

Sansa is distraught – that much he is very certain of. And he vows to peel off each layer of the lies she has piled up on top of the absolute truth, freeing her from that realm of madness she believes she is the queen of.

With that in mind, he rises with new determination. His palms flat on the table, thinking of the next step should be taken. From the corner of his eyes, he could see the lid of Sansa’s box not covering its body accordingly. He nudged it with his finger, trying to push it back but it slides right off to the surface of the table. He does not mean to peek, but his eyes catch sight of an old parchment within the box of ornaments. Curious, he fishes it out. It has been read, again and again, proven by its softness and its numb edges, probably flatten and folded repeatedly. He unfolds it, wondering what it could contain that it is placed inside a box of her prized possession? His thumb pulling one side apart, and he is greeted with Sansa’s familiar handwriting.

_I will find solace with each breath you draw,_

_Even when my embrace will never be enough to warm you,_

_Even when my body will never be marked by you,_

_Breathe, just breathe my love, that would have kept me sated, would have kept me sane_

_Knowing that you are safe - in another’s embrace._

 

A sudden warmth envelops him, filling his entire being. A smile breaks free from his tight lips. The fight they just have mattered not. He rereads the sentences over and over, committing it to his memories permanently. 

_She loves me._

\---------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seek to show how emotionally unstable Sansa is. She went through a lot and she's truly losing control being left alone in Winterfell. She could deal with it initially, but with Jon being near it just put off the balance she has tried very hard to maintain. 
> 
> Argh, I'm worried but here goes nothing.


	12. Puckering

_Puckering_

Result of the fabric being gathered by the stitches. Causes include incorrect density, loose hooping, insufficient backing, or incorrect thread tensions.

 ---------

It has been a while. Jon decides to simply observe now that he learns he will never get her to speak unless she is ready to spill. Through his observation, Jon notices the way she mourns. Her hair is kept in a tight bun, never released freely again. Different cuffs adorning it according to who she is mourning for on the said day. He sees Ice pushed through her coiffure, or Needle even. The other day he notices the weir wood’s leaves made from metal placed neatly around her hair bun, the next day it is the emblem of Tully’s house. Before he begins to wonder what accessory she adorns her hair with on the day she mourns for Robb, he notices a glint of a shining small crown hidden behind her fiery hair. A small black pup for Rickon and for him, a strand of white ribbon the color of snow. The same one she wore the day he arrived at Winterfell. It raises questions, rumbling within his chest but most important of all - why would she mourn him when he is still there, breathing?

As if that is not unsettling enough, she mourns for herself too. On those days, she will plait her long hair to the end and instead of pulling it into a bun she winds it around her neck.

Like a noose.

\----------

_Drogon!_

His mind jumps to revisit the oddity surrounding the death of the great, last dragon that answers to only the dead queen.  The light from the candle placed in front of his book - _Forgotten Magic Buried in The North_ flickers every time he turns the pages. The night is chilly in the North, but it brings warmth in his chest. He is very familiar to the cold instead of the heat down South or everywhere else he has traveled.

North is home.

Jon is alone in his personal solar attached to his chamber, far away across the yard from Sansa’s. He should have known that something is off the moment he was shown to it. So much distance placed between them. His only saving grace is the fact that he could still see her if she let her window opens. A glimpse of her from afar – and she always let it open, to remind herself that she is home.

He shakes his head and refocuses on task at hand. He has been occupying himself with reading, something only made possible due to Sansa’s efficacy in managing everything smoothly. He does attend few gatherings with other lords but mainly to observe – Sansa needs not someone else undermining her authority, certainly not from him. Asserting his power here in the North is highly inappropriate even when he was once hailed as its king. For him, the North is always Stark’s and he has lived too long not being one it is almost impossible, at least for him, to shake off the Snow he has grown accustomed to having as part of himself.

He returns to his reading once again. He has been gathering knowledge regarding on warging, something he knows Bran was capable of. He has sent a raven to Sam, now his maester, with the hope he could offer a deeper insight on such matter. Sam gives a lengthy reply that sums up everything that he knows about it, but he promised to have books sent over for him to read up on his own.

Drogon, the orphaned beast appeared once in a while, threatening lives as it fed its hunger but disappeared without a trace soon after. It was a threat to his budding reign, yet as soon as it was recognized as such, he saw the beast plunged itself into the sea. Perished by its own doing.

Very unlikely for a mystical being.

On that day, they were on the ship, leaving from Essos heading to Dragonstone. He was reluctant, to say the least, it was, and it will always belong to Daenerys, but Tyrion made a point that Dragon Stone is now his, the last Targaryen. Jon was about to argue heatedly, _North is his home_  when a loud screech halted their conversation. All heads were turned to the sound, the shadow of a dragon looming over their ship. They were unprepared. The talks on hunting it down had been pursued but were yet to be executed. Now it seemed the dragon itself had taken upon it to hunt them down before being hunted.  

It was madness on the ship. People scrambled, the captain giving orders, yet Jon stood transfixed at the sight. He did not want to kill her last-child, nor did he ever wished to tame the beast. He wanted it to be free. But its freedom would have unquestionably jeopardized his people’s safety when he noticed Drogon’s restless way of flying.

He does not know exactly how to explain it, but as he reads more on warg, it looks as if the dragon was fighting for control. The way he twisted his body and flapping his wings violently it was as if there was an invisible threat inside him that no one else could see nor feel but him. Not long after, everyone on board noticed the strange behavior too. The dragon was crying for help, struggling midair before he plunged himself into the water, never to resurface again. The impact rocked the ship, living everyone staggered for balance after witnessing the fall of the Queen of Ashes’ last child.

People whispered about how Drogon was mourning the death of its mother. Its grief eventually spells out its own death.  Tyrion agreed that dragons are fond to their riders, but they are animal still, their survival always comes first.

He shuts the book with a loud thump, his fingers dart to his forehead to ease the beginning of the familiar throbbing.

_Could it be that Bran has warged into Drogon thus putting an end to what could have been a threat to his reign?_

_How many people should die just to secure his place on the throne?_

_Most importantly, did Sansa allow this to happen under her watch? Is that what she meant when she hails herself as Queen of madness, betrayal and self-loathing?_

_\-------_ _\------_

Tyrion’s arrival is unexpected, to say the least. Sansa welcomes him and his warm, witty answers – a breath of change as compared to the people surrounding her. The South has its charms. Not enough to guarantee her return yet pleasing still to have its reminder close from time to time. They exchange news, him letting her know of the current political climate while she bores him with the details in North’s rebuilding and what could be an expansion. She personally shows him his way to a chamber he will reside in throughout his visit. There are too many empty chambers in this castle, a surprise visit would not be a challenge to provide for.

\---------------

“When Sam said he will be sending some books, I wouldn’t have expected to see you delivering it.”

Tyrion finds Jon in the yard, overseeing children honing their fighting skills. Some are practicing with their bows and arrows while some are wrestling despite the cold. The physical exertions perhaps offer enough warmth for them. Someone from South likes him should stop trying to understand how thick the skin the Northerners possess.

“I enjoy being someone whose strength is his mind. I applaud myself being associated with the word intelligence, even the supposed to be an insult know-it-all and Sam…is being Sam. It irks me to the bone Your Grace, having him around. He is challenging my position.” Tyrion pulls his cloak tighter as he continues to watch a wrestling match between a boy of what he assumes twelve years old at least with a girl of his age yet with a smaller build. They are circling one another, eyeing for an opening to deliver the one blow that could end the fight.

He decides the girl would win the fight.

Jon yells out some instructions to the pair before he replies Tyrion, amusement evident in his voice, “You are my Hand. He is my maester. Those are two very different positions.”

“Well, I am one of your Hands since you appoint Ser Davos to be the other.”

A blow on the girl’s side makes Tyrion winces audibly in pain. She coughs, forced on her knees. The boy comes closer, waiting for her surrender, a celebratory smile already carved on his lips before it disappears just as quick as the girl launches herself towards him, pushing him to the ground. With quick deft movements, suddenly she is sitting on top of the boy’s back, pulling his head towards her as the boy finds himself tapping the muddy ground furiously, surrendering.

Tyrion’s smile is wide before he raises his hands to applaud the girl’s victory.  Jon gathers them all, it is almost time for dinner. He gives them a few reminders, congratulating the girl and the boy for giving their best while still adhering to the rules of a fair fight.  The children nod at his words before thanking him and retreat to clean themselves.

“They are orphans most of them. Sansa takes them under her wings, expanding the castle to make room for them to stay indefinitely.”

Tyrion nods. He has noticed a new wing toward what used to be the forest behind the castle. With too many dead houses, the best they could do is to gather the remaining in one safe place. They walk together the two of them, heading to the banquet hall.

“It is Sansa’s idea to have two men made Hands. She thought it will be fitting. To keep close someone who has my back to a point he is willing to find ways to resurrect me.”  

Tyrion wonders if that is supposed to be a jab at his decision to pledge loyalty at one and not fulfilling it to the end? He simply brushes it off. It is in the past now. Ser Davos is a worthy addition. He brings balance in the small council. What he lacks in education, he trumps in his experience and tactful instincts. 

“I have your books sent to your solar Your Grace. And if I may, why on earth are you looking for those? Aren’t you supposed to woo your Queen?” Tyrion did not hide his surprise well the first time he learns that Jon harbors a lover’s love towards Sansa. But as he thinks about it again, is it really a surprise? Love happens with his two siblings, sharing blood and womb. How dare he question Jon’s feelings when Sansa is never his sister to begin with.  

Jon tosses his gaze away. “She doesn’t want to be courted. I think that is the very last thing on her mind at the moment or perhaps always. She is in pain.”

_Ahh, to have love slipping away, needing conviction to bloom again. A beautiful kind of pain._

Tyrion manages to hide his grin, not that the king will notice it before he speaks,

“Better change her mind quick. Dorne is eager for a political marriage. Or perhaps you are in need of a contender to speed things up? It’s a shame my marriage to her is annulled. Gods know my future children are in dire need of a beautiful mother whose beauty could last at least four generations.”

A half chortle could be heard coming from the young king’s lips.

“You’d think I wouldn’t toss you out the window just because I am fond of having you as my Hand?” Jon is teasing. As always. The time spent with Tyrion has managed to lighten his sense of humor. He has learned to appreciate Tyrion even back then when they first see each other years ago. Tyrion has been the first man to speak an end to his melancholic regarding his parentage back during their first meeting. Sharp truth of the world spoken through his lips help him to open his mind and see choices instead of lamenting on what he has been given with.

Tyrion too enjoys their banter, perhaps a little too much. Jon has grown over the moons, from a brooding lad to a man eager to soak what the world has to offer and in return create something better that would have brought only good to the realms. It is a much better trade than having his life hinges at the end of the dragon’s breath.

“It would have been too easy, isn’t it? True strength is to hold yourself back from doing so which is why I have such faith in you Your Grace.” They both share a good laugh as they speed up their paces.

“Didn’t the both of you promise each other anything before?” Tyrion asks as they take the right turn that will bring them to the hall much faster.

“Would that have made things easier?”

“ _The North remembers_. Isn’t that a Northern thing? And you are bound to the North despite the fire in your blood.”

“I would love to be truly bound to the North.” His answer only a whisper, laden with pining as they have arrived at the small feast held to honor the King’s Hand.

\------------

Sansa leans closer to Tyrion. The table is loud with roaring laughter courtesy of stories Sansa has heard a million times over. The accumulation of sounds bantered across the tables could easily mask the question she is dying to ask the Lord of Casterly Rock. He must understand. He’s the only one she could think of that has shared the same experience of being a Kinslayer.

“Tyrion?”

Noticing how she has omitted his title, Tyrion leans closer too, suspecting the matter would be raised might have been personal. He wonders what would be so urgent that she could not seek him much later when they could ensure privacy clouding the issue all over.

“Yes, Sansa. Is anything the matter?”

She purses her lips while her fingers wound together, her thumbs fighting for dominance against the other. “They said you killed your father. Did you really?” her voice a mere hush.

“I did.” His curiosity peaking at where could this question lead to.

“How do you feel about it? Knowing that you murder your own father?”

Tyrion is about to answer when he realizes the whole stretch of the table has gone quiet. Each holding their breath, waiting for an answer he is about to offer. Sansa seems to be quite lost, her eyes glazing, the sudden stillness has gone unnoticed to her as she centers her undoubtful attention to his response.

Tyrion’s gaze is fleeting between her earnest stare and the others’. He lifts his goblet, fills it with wine before drinking it, smacking his lips at the exquisite taste.

“Pure satisfaction. We are talking about a man who despises me from the day I was born. How can I feel any other than glory after putting an end to his life? I suppose you Northerners should at least offer me some kindness over that one act of ending Tywin Lannister.”

A wave of grumbles and mutterings spread across the length of the table.

“Aye. Is it true then?” the rough voice startles Sansa as she realizes everyone has been listening to what is supposed to be a muted discussion.

“What exactly is supposed to be true good lords?” Tyrion raises his hand before pulling it close to his face, moving it against his beard.

“Did Tywin Lannister shit gold?” few snickers loudly following the question.

“Ahhh, the infamous assumption. That would have been quite a trade considering he shit quite a lot after I release the second arrow to his gut. But unfortunately, not. He shits pure filth.”

The table continues their initial loudness, laughing from his answer.

“I know, I know. A disappointment really because if he did, I could have been set for life, fleeing in a steady ship instead of being smuggled away in a tiny coffin.”

He winks at the rest who seem very much entertained to be told the story of how Tywin Lannister shits himself in his death.

If she is disappointed in his answer, she did well to hide it from the rest by averting their eyes. A slight smile, small bites in between. She may be fooling the rest, but Jon knows better.  

\--------------

Later that night, Sansa finds herself stirred from her focus from balancing the ledger due to the persistent knocks on the door. She doubts it is Jon, for they have settled with keeping a distance from one another since the almost screaming match in her chamber last time. She opens her door to be greeted by Tyrion’s presence.

“My Lord, why have you come here?”

“To offer an honest answer to your previous inquisition.”

Sansa raises her eyebrows before she opens the door entirely to allow him to enter. He sits across Sansa and he gestures at Sansa to take a seat. His face is serious.

“What’s with the hair?” his main reason to visit momentarily diverges as he notices the different styling.

“Look is deceiving. It adds years to my appearance. People won’t be too quick to dismiss my opinion due to my age.”

“Very clever.”

“Thank you.”

Silence. Sansa is waiting for what he has promised to offer; an honest answer. Tyrion is trying to think of what way to best begin what he supposes to be very similar to a confession.

“I was on trial for murdering Jeoffrey. I didn’t kill him. It was Lady Olenna. Jamie told me. A neat little trick from a very cunning old woman. I would have applauded her if I don’t happen to be the scapegoat. Instead, I was framed and humiliated trying to defend myself in front of everyone I have done so much to save and prove that I am worthy of something good. His voice quivers with intensity so vivid as if the trial was held yesterday. If he must choose one incident that affected him to the core, changing his very nature to a point where there is no possible way of turning back, he would have named that day he was put on trial.

He is talking more to himself as his voice lowers down, “I am not a burden. I am not a monster even when all agree I am one. I am more than just a cursed existence.”

Sansa never doubts that. The Tyrion that she knows is clever and so very kind even when the rest of the Lannisters have decided not to.

“I killed Shae.” His intonation nonchalant yet his eyes blink rapidly as if pushing back tears.

“What did she do?” Sansa knows which question deserves to be spoken out loud.

“She conspired against me. And I found her on Tywin’s bed. The decision did not come any quicker for me to end such betrayal from someone I had dared to love so much. So much.”

Her hands reach out and Tyrion reaches out too, allowing himself some consolation. Sansa rubs her thumb against his knuckle, “I’m sorry to hear that..”

Their hands remain in that position for few lingering moments before he pats her hand gently, mouthing his gratitude before he brings his hands back on his lap. He leans back, his fingers tapping the hands of the chair lightly, his eyes wandering to the bookshelves in her solar.

“When I killed my father, true, to a certain degree, yes, I felt satisfaction. He had treated me with disrespect and harsh words and coldness that would have brought shame to the coldest winter in the North itself. But that satisfaction burned only for a worthwhile. When it finally dimmed, pain replaces it.”

He dares to steal a look at her, and it alarms him that he sees the same pained expression reflected through her eyes.

“He always blamed me as the cause of my mother’s death. Perhaps. But now I know for certain I have caused my father’s death.”

Sansa’s voice is small when she utters her question.

“Do you think the pain will go away?”

“I doubt it. It will stay. It is part of me now. But I have been kind even in his death. Quick and fleeting instead of dragging it until he begs for mercy. Which I doubt he would do.”

He rubs his hands together, marking an end to his confession.

Yet Sansa only sees the beginning of her endless pain. 

“Sansa, are you blaming yourself for the deaths in your family?” he has been trying to guess the meaning behind her question and this is the only possible explanation his mind could offer.

“It is not the same as wielding the weapon in your own hands. You didn’t…you didn’t stab them in the chest yourself or poison them or anything. It is understandable to grieve but to shift the blame, to carry it on your shoulder in its entirety… that is you being cruel to yourself.” He notices how she flinches at the word _stab,_ but he chalks it up to the absurdity of Sansa, the soft, gentle Sansa that could never hurt anyone else even if that person is very deserving.

Sansa continues to look straight at his attempt to pacify her feelings.

_Oh, if only he knew what happens to Ramsay._

“You shouldn’t.” his voice is very determined. A tad too forceful to the untrained ears.

“I hate to see you like this. It reminds me of those days you were trapped in King’s Landing. Even worse now because you cover it so well…”

Sansa stands up, signaling the end of their sharing. “Thank you, Tyrion. You have always been so kind to me.”

He sighs loudly. Northerners are known for their stubbornness and standing in front of him is the prime example of such.

“I hope you will heal.”

“I don’t think I can. Not anymore.”

She shuts the door slowly. Her eyes fill with unchallenged morose that stuns him from speaking.

 --------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know warg is approached differently in the books but I am following the show. The coming chapter we will finally know what exactly happens to Bran. I promise. til then, Happy Reading!


	13. A Crumpled Mess

_That's the thing about pain, it demands to be felt._

_-John Green_

_\-----------_

 

 

**_Drogon is a threat that needs to be eliminated._ **

**** **_We are in the North, Bran. The best we could do is to inform the King_ **

**_of its whereabout and have him sent his army there._ **

****

**_It wouldn’t work. Drogon is a gargantuan beast and a savage._ **

**_He would ruin all men sent his way._ **

**** **_What are you suggesting?_ **

****

**_I can finish him Sansa._ **

**_No!_ **

Sansa is pacing like a wild trapped animal inside her chamber. Her mind is wreckage as she pieces all that has led to that horrible end. Talking to Tyrion only confirm what she has always known – she is trapped in her own doing, regardless of all reasonings, excuses she chucks into the argument, this is a mistake after mistake piled on one another creating a story so dreadful and heartbreaking because she is still living through it. She runs her fingers through her long tresses and pulls hard at her own scalp; memory after memory brought forward in her mind and she is a mere audience, strapped onto her seat with her eyes forced open seeing the horror she could taste in every fiber of her being.

 

**_I am afraid the Night King is lurking in the shadow, waiting for an opportunity to come back. I can feel him Sansa. At my weakest moment,_ ** **_I can feel him staring back at me with his piercing blue eyes, patiently bidding for the right chance. His hold on me is still strong._ **

****

**_Arya kills him. And with his death, we have ended that horror. He couldn’t possibly come back._ **

****

**_He could. Because we are connected._ **

****

**_Bran, you are thinking too much about it. The Long Night has ended for good. We are done with wars. How many wars can befall onto one generation in one lifetime? It’s absurd!_ **

**_You are afraid because you know what at stake._ **

****

**_Am I wrong?_ **

****

**_You are clever Sansa. Arya said so herself._ **

Sansa lets out a burst of forced laughter. What is the use of such validation when she has no one to share it with? Her breathing heavy as she creates her own trenches on the floor with the way she drags her naked feet against it. She digs half-moons into her palms in order for her to feel something, some pain that would hold her to the present instead of this nightmare of the past she has lived through yet insists to stay, gripping her every waking moment with its tainted talons.

 

**_I can’t Bran I can’t. Have mercy on me, please! I have been responsible for every death in this family. Father lost his head when I refused to go home. Robb, Mother… they are dead because I was too weak to save myself. Rickon, our little brother dies because I gave up on him. Arya dies because I sent her there! Have mercy on your sister Bran please don’t make me do this!_ **

****

**_I am asking you to free me._ **

****

**_You are all I have left. Jon is not coming back for me. You are enough for me. I am not asking for much Bran. I’ll be good…I’ll listen…I’ll take care of you. Please don’t leave me alone… Gods! Isn’t it enough already?! I’ve learned my lesson! Please don’t take him too…_ **

****

**_I want this to end Sansa. Help me, end me._ **

****

The rage that consumes her gives her enough strength to lift Bran’s chair and hurls it against the wall. It breaks to pieces, yet it offers her only a brief sense of satisfaction. She wants to hurt someone. She wants to hurt herself and maybe she could be free of it too. The cold wind blowing slaps her awake as she realizes that he has seen her from afar. She staggers, losing her footing. Shame and embarrassment decide to appear thick when her chest is already heavy with guilt.

_Where is that damned dagger?_

Ghost stops her in her tracks as if he knows what she intends to do.

“Stay. Be quiet.” As she pulls out the dagger from its sheath.

_\------------_

Perhaps he has become so attuned to every movement in her room that his ears perk at the sound of something crashing. Jon rushes to his window and he sees her standing, her hair a wild mess, looking at him.

He runs.

He runs as if he is chased by the Night King himself. With each step, he pushes himself to run faster. One name repeated over and over in his mind.

_Sansa. Sansa. Sansa. Sansa._

He arrives at her chamber, the door already open yet she is not there. The chamber is a complete mess, with pieces from Bran’s chair littering her bare bed. He is about to leave, his mind flipping over the possible places she could have gone in the short span of time taken for him to reach her when he realizes that Ghost is still there in the room.

_Ghost never leaves her alone._

Jon enters the chamber, a complete representation of his own state of mind as he crouches low, closer to Ghost.

“Where is she?”

Ghost nudges his shoulder, forcing him to turn towards the window. He stands up, taking two steps closer before he realizes a figure lying on the floor, covered with furs. One hand holding a dagger with its blade nicking the floor, twirling it.

“Sansa?”

The twirling stops before she releases the dagger made from dragon glass. She pulls herself into a tight ball, her face covered with her hair he couldn’t tell what expression she is wearing.

“Go. Away.”

Her voice seething.

Her reluctance to offer him a chance begins to rub him the wrong way. He has given her more than enough chance to deal with her demons on her own and clearly, the fight is not going anywhere remotely close towards a conclusion. He holds her arms firmly, peeling her from the floor before he pushes her to sit onto her bed. She struggles, clawing at him and hitting him everywhere she could reach with her hands. Jon grits his teeth as he tries to evade the hits as gently as possible before he could grab hold her small wrists in his hands, his face so close to hers,

“What do you want to do?”

His question catches her off guard.

“I am asking you a question. What. Do. You. Want. To. Do?” Jon is done guessing. His eyes flashing some hurt and anger too as he looks at her earnestly. It pains him seeing her broken like this, refusing any help. He’s letting her be in control and he is just going to make sure she doesn’t hurt herself badly.

She mulls over his question. Nobody has actually offered her options throughout her life. Most of the time it felt as if the choices are already made for her and she simply follows the intended course.

“I want to scream until my throat bleeds.”

“Alright.” He pulls her up, forcing her to stand before he grabs her pillow and drags her away from her chamber. Along the way he kicks open one door after another, searching for a place she could scream her lungs out without having any other witnesses than himself. In the end, he made up his mind. There is only one place that could offer such privacy. He tightens his grip over her wrist, his other hand holding the pillow as he drags her towards the crypt.

 -----------------

“Here we are. Away from prying eyes, ears. Do as you see fit. Scream.” Jon pushes the pillow towards her, nudging her to take it. Sansa appears baffled at first before she gingerly reaches out for it, gripping the seams hard, pulling it close to her chest.  

She retreats away from him, hiding between her siblings’ tombs. Yes, she wants to scream but not now. Not when he is waiting. She pulls her legs against her chest, making herself as small as possible, burying her face against the pillow.

Jon stands as far as possible from her, allowing her to be alone with her thoughts. He waits patiently. Perhaps she would have a need for him after she is done.

The grief builds slowly and so does her tears. First, she cries because she is ashamed to be weak in Jon’s presence. She cries, not knowing who she is anymore or who she aspires to be. She doesn’t know. Too much has been taken from her she doesn’t know what’s left to make her, _her._

Then the tears spill with vengeance at the sight of statues lining up neatly in front of her. She cries for Robb and his child, for Father and Mother separated without the possibility of a happy reunion. It starts as a weep before it turns to full sobbing and wailing as she mourns her younger siblings. Tears she has been withholding for so long finally demand a release, staining her pillow and her night shift.

Jon bits his lower lip until he tastes blood. His body itches to go closer, wanting so bad to console her but he knows she needs such release. Finally, after deliberate arguments he has within him, he closes the distance between them, sitting close to the statues, yet not too close to her who is flanked by Arya’s and Bran’s tombs. Not close enough to be seen yet enough for his presence to be felt.

The wailing finally turns to scream. Continuous screaming that she tries to cover with the pillow. Jon hits the back of his head against Bran’s knees repeatedly, feeling completely helpless. Her screams break him too, reminding him of what they have lost the moment they chose their separate paths years ago.

It must have been hours before her screaming subsides, leaving intermittent sobs, leftovers from her crying. Her eyes are swollen, her cheeks red and she looks spent. Empty. Jon dares himself to move, to sit closer to her. She leans her back against Arya’s tomb while he leans his back against Bran’s tomb, facing one another.

She is calmer. The pain she has concealed for so long has burst so violently leaving her hollow. Burning her with this unbearable heat from within. She begins to speak but the screaming has turned her voice hoarse. She clears her throat before she tries one more time.

“Remember when we were allowed to play outside Winterfell? You, me and Robb. It was always snowing. You will hide on the branch of this one particular tree with Robb, calling me to search for you and when I stand directly underneath the branch you two will shake the branch violently, dumping all the snow clinging on it onto me. I would cry and tell mother. I wouldn’t lie, seeing you and Robb being punished was far sweeter than any desserts served after a meal.”

Jon remembers that memory. They did share few good ones together before he was constantly reminded he is never one of them before Sansa was raised to see status first instead of good hearts. “I was a stupid boy.” He couldn’t help the ghost of a smile that lingers on his lips longer than expected.

“Nay, you were a boy,” Sansa speaks, but her voice hollow.

“This is what it feels like. Almost…An avalanche, sweeping me with no mercy.” Jon simply listens. Looking directly at her, whose gaze was thrown to the wall instead.

“I kill Arya.”

“No, you didn’t.” Jon is quick to negate her statement. He was there when it happened.

“I sent her there to protect you. She should kill her, not you.”

“It is me who has failed to protect her,” he remembers. Her skin melting, her mask and her face became one, haunting him to this day. But he has also learned to respect her bravery and the choices she had made in her life. It brings small comfort to him, knowing that Arya had always been that person – stubborn, and unyielding. Perhaps Sansa needs to be reminded of such.

“When will you learn that you cannot make Arya do something unless she wants to?”

“True.” She straightens her stiff legs, pulling the pillow over her lap. She is far from done. She has a lot to confess and it feels almost cathartic; she is not about to stop.

“I kill Bran.”

Jon’s hand hovers over her foot before he thought better of it and pull it back on his lap. He is not going to break the calmness surrounding her that she finally feels brave enough to confide. “You told me Bran dies in his sleep.”

“A simple lie.”

“Tell me.” For a fleeting second Sansa looks at him and he offers her his fullest attention, his gaze, and expression free from presumptions.

“Bran had been going on and on about Drogon, about the return of the Night King.” Jon straightens his back at the mention of Night King. He has a theory on Bran’s connection to Drogon’s death, but the Night King’s involvement is new to him.

“He wanted to leave this world with as many threats he could carry on his own. I begged and pleaded but his decision remained unshaken. I told him no. I wouldn’t be a part of that. When he approached the subject again, I was livid. I told him, if he wanted to die so much then walked on his own two feet and jumped from the window of the highest tower Winterfell can offer.”

“I am a monster am I not?”

Jon shakes his head no. Internally; he is suppressing an inappropriate chuckle. He does not know why, perhaps being at the walls for too long had made his sense of humor dark and askew, but he feels there is nothing wrong with what she said because it sounds to him more like a meaningless quarrel one has amongst siblings. And Sansa has always managed to deliver a stinging blow just using words.

She seems to be able to read his thoughts. A grin appears on her lips too.

“I let him be for a while. I had enough talk about matters. I have meddled enough. I have only him. I would rather have him hating me but still breathing than losing yet another.”

Jon feels a sharp pain in his chest. The way she is so convinced that Bran was all she had left.

“Few days passed before I entered his chamber, wanting to amend things. He was crying.”

“I cried too for the things I had said but it stands true to this day - what he asked of me is too much. But then he said one thing that makes perfect sense to me.” Sansa closes her eyes, savoring the string of words put together by his lips but felt as if it was taken from the deepest, darkest part of her own mind.

“ _I am asking you to free me_.” She breathes the words out, slowly, almost begging.

“Wasn’t it me who envies Theon’s death? I understand what he is asking for. The burden he was forced to carry chipped bits of himself to nothingness with each passing second. It was eating him from the inside and he wants to go but by making sure his death is not futile.”

Jon feels it is his turn to speak. She looks as if she is having second thoughts on continuing.

“Did he…did he warg into Drogon? I was there when it fell to the bottom of the sea. I saw it. Have I witnessed the end of my brother too? Was I made oblivious to yet another death?” as much as he theorizes about it, he does not wish to be right. It was awful watching the beast dies on its own, now knowing that his brother was inside the dragon, part of it, his mind couldn’t stop but to play that scene over and over.

“Have you ever seen someone drown?” her voice detached. She refuses to answer his question. Instead, she asks him one.

“Drowning in a dry, warm bed. Gasping for air as his lungs filled with nonexisting water. With his sister sitting there next to him.  It was not a pretty sight.” He sees it. The way she looks through the wall; her mind is torturing her with the memory.

“That’s not you killing him Sansa. He made that choice.” It is always a choice someone made that leaves the one surviving with guilt when it shouldn’t be that way.

“Die?” she raises one eyebrow at him. “He didn’t die from that. Weaken? Yes.”

There is more to her guilt and Jon begins to question the severity of the situation gods have placed Sansa in.  

“Remember how he had shown us the mark on his hand? The one from the Night King himself?”

Jon nods and waits for further explanation. He realizes it is impossible to write this experience, to condense it into a letter and he begins to understand why she had made the choice to say Bran simply dies in his sleep.

“It threaded a much stronger connection between him as Three-Eyed Raven and the Night King himself. They are magical beings the both of them. One’s life indebted to the other yet with no one knowing that the other couldn’t truly die if another still lives.”

“He was coming. Bran was weakened from Drogon’s death. It was a perfect opportunity.”

She fidgets with the corner of her pillow, trying to shred it open with her nails, picking into it. He could tell she is nervous. Her breaths hitch and quicken. “I had a plan. I had gathered enough sleeping draught to kill. It was never meant for him, but it could be a kinder end. I know warging into Drogon will cost him much. I thought it could be a painless death.”

 _Sleeping draught_ …Jon is reminded of the conversation he shared with the maester. He swallows his shock as he realizes Sansa has meant to end her own life, collecting every dose she was given until she would have enough to do the deed.

“His body went still. Warm, yet properly broken. I waited for signs. Hoping beyond hope that he would open his eyes and come back to me.”

Jon dares to hope too. Even when they both know the end of the story as it is.

“He opens his eyes alright. But it was foreign to me. Of piercing blue eyes, cold and unforgiving. Almost glass-like,” Jon freezes at her description.

“Bran’s body started to move, and I didn’t know what possessed me…but I knew for certain that was not my brother anymore. I refused to have him used as a puppet. I jumped onto his bed, grabbing the dagger that Bran had conveniently placed next to his pillow and I stabbed his chest. Ramming the length deep inside before I twisted it, all while staring at that cursed blue eyes, wanting so badly for it to dim.”

“ _Stick them with the pointy end_.” Arya’s words are whispered through her lips. Jon recognizes it. The horror of killing Bran visible in her round eyes. Jon releases the breath he does not realize he has been holding. That’s it. That is the secret that has been weighing her down and he could only imagine how to continue living after what she had done. He thought back to his readiness to end Daenerys’s life and he couldn’t help but wonder if he had been the one wielding his dagger, would he have been spared from such distraught Sansa is experiencing, or would he succumb to it entirely. He knows his odds; he would have succumbed. Yet Sansa is still here, carrying the guilt while still carrying out her responsibilities as Warden of the North. A new level of respect over her strength overcomes his desire to sweep her into his embrace.

He rubs his eyes, listening to her laments. Bran knew his death is necessary. He himself knows it is the only possible option, but he would never wish to trade places with Sansa. He doubts he has the courage.

“So much blood….”

“When I was certain that the devil, the Night King was gone, I pulled the dagger out and I cleaned myself. I went to my chamber, gathered my embroidery tools, my scissors…all that I need to stitch my brother back together. His skin was the last thing I stitch, ever. No more….” She presses her fingers against the soft pillow, creating a temporary dent as if she is trying to remember the size of the wound she had been responsible for.

“I cleaned him, changed his clothes, changed the bed covering. Burned all that was tainted with his blood. Cut it to small pieces and fed them to the fire.”

She buries her eyes against the heel of her palms. Her voice muffled. He leans forward, wanting to listen to each word that only now managed to be uttered out loud.

“I sat there, staring at his pale face, wishing that he had said something to me, for me, before he perished in my own hands.”

“I could feel Mother sitting on the other side of the bed. Mourning him the same way she mourned after his fall. It occurred to me that that chamber was the one witnessing an attempt of Bran’s assassination, also with a dagger wasn’t it?”

Jon is reminded of the goodbyes he had said to Bran when he was so little and broken. The harsh words were spoken to him by her mother still ringing in his ears as if it was only yesterday she had said _it should have been you…_

“I could hear her saying, _You, you did this._ ” Jon doesn’t know how. How to stop her from blaming herself.

“Come morning I informed Maester Wolkan about Bran’s death. I could have told him the truth, but I didn’t. I lie. Told him he dies in his sleep.”

“We burned him.”

“The next day, Ghost arrived. I took that as Bran’s last farewell to me. That I did the right thing.” It was the right thing. Jon wants to tell her that he understands. She had done what needed to be done. But the words remain trap behind his teeth.

She covers her face with her hands. “I didn’t do the right thing. It does not feel right at all.”

Sansa presses the back of her head against the empty tomb. What feels close to relief is now coursing through her. She does not need to see what she assumes should be disgust in his eyes just yet. She has been avoiding his gaze throughout the night and now, now she can breathe a tad easier. She closes her eyes and sighs before exhaustion overcomes her and she dreams nothing but blackness.

 --------------------

When he is sure she has fallen asleep, he sits next to her, gently pulling her head to rest on his lap. He strokes her hair free from knots and he notices her quiet moans. He hushes at her, still stroking her hair, letting her have her rest. Once in a while, he squeezes her shoulder, letting she knows that she is not alone.

He is relieved. At least he knows now. But it might be too soon to process it all, to internalize it. It is as if he could feel the pain, palpable, thrumming through her sleeping body. He looks down at her sleeping form, one finger tracing the puffiness of her eyes before he rubs her cheek gently. He takes a deep breath before exhaling it loudly.

He is the last Targaryen.

She is the last Stark.

Huddled together seeking comfort from ice and fire.

\-----------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Reading! Leave comments, please. Thank you.


	14. Backing

_Backing_

_Woven or non-woven material used underneath the item being embroidered to provide support and stability. Sometimes referred to as a stabilizer in the home embroidery market._

_\-----------------_

The word pain loses its meaning when one is drowning in it. Questions arise; how much is too much? how long is too long? how far is too far? Only time could tell, shackled with one’s determination to continue living. Yet to continue means to have purposes and when all the envisioned plausible futures are engulfed in fire that perish all that dares to enter, what is left to push said person forward? Hope?

What if the said person believes in hope no longer?

What then?

What is left then?

\---------------

Tyrion finds them the next morning, both are still sleeping. The crypt is dark – all candles have snuffed out throughout the night, making it harder to see the two, hidden amongst the tombs. Tyrion catches glimpse of Sansa’s statue and he could only imagine what it would be like if he chose to return to Casterly Rock. Loneliness is a terrible friend, weepy and needy and consuming, sucking the soul out from the living. He nudges the young King, jutting his chin towards Sansa, curious with what has transpired the night before. Guards are tasked to search for them when they realize their disappearance, coupled with the state of Sansa’s chamber it is too easy to assume the worst.  

Jon opens his eyes, trying to chase away the drowsiness. He is slumped against the cold marble, one finger raised against his lips - reminding Tyrion to keep his silence.

“Send few maidservants to her chamber, have it cleaned and draw a bath for her. I’ll escort her to her room soon.”

Tyrion nods yet he stands there unmoving, waiting for at least a short explanation as to why they were there of all places. Jon understands his sincere concern.

“She finally allows herself to mourn.” He whispers an abridged version of the real accumulation of reasons that could have explained why they ended up in the crypt with the dead.

“Good.”

Jon whips his head too quick after he hears Tyrion’s response.

“I mean, it looks terrible but it’s good. Same goes as fever. It has to go bad before your body can begin to heal itself.”

Sansa stirs in her sleep and both men freeze instantly, not wanting to jeopardize her rare deep slumber even with something as vital as breathing.

“Go.” Jon mouthing the word to Tyrion.

\-----------------

Sansa takes off her dirty night shift and lets it pool onto the floor before she enters the tub. The temperature is a tad too warm yet very much welcome. She pulls her legs against her chest, her fingers covering her knees before she digs her chin on top of it, closing her eyes, basking in the warmth lapping her body. A small unfamiliar hand begins to scrub her back and she flinches violently.

She has never allowed anyone to see her body after what has been done to her.

“Forgive me milady! Forgive me! I will search for someone else!” the young girl rushes out before she could tell her no. Only then she realizes how sore her throat is. She tries to speak. Nothing comes out but a gush of air and some sort of squeak.

She exhales her disappointment. She does not wish for another to touch her. She could do it herself. But she must admit, she is spent. Her body weak and she is suddenly so curious of drowning. Water splashes all around her as she begins to submerge her whole body into the tub. The water covers her breasts before slowly rising to her neck. She watches in fascination as it continues to climb, further blanketing her chin, so close now to her nose. She inhales what could be her last breath, before pushing herself lower.

_Just a tad more._

She closes her eyes. 

Strong calloused hands, surrounds her, grabbing hold of her body and pulls her to the surface, the sudden lurch leaves her gasping for air. Her back is pressed against the wooden tub, his hands wound around her. She could feel his body too close, his lips even closer she could feel his warm breaths, as warm as the water of her bath, as he whispers,

“No Sansa. Not today.”

His voice is shaky.

Another layer of guilt.

One hand land on his arm while the other pats the side of his face gently against his course beard as she silently assures him with a nod.

_Not today._

\-----------------

He washes her hair, massaging her scalp as gently as he could. He steals glances from time to time, trying to read her expression only to see it void of any. Her eyes hardly blinking – an empty stare. He rinses her hair free from the fragrant oils before he places a drying cloth and a clean night shift on a stool next to her. She lifts one finger, tapping the night shift three times, questioning the option.

“You need to sleep. You need your rest. I am here. Tyrion is here. The North can afford her warden to rest for a few days.”

She rubs the soft cotton against her fingers slowly. Jon takes that as a sign that she accepts the arrangement. He leaves her to rinse, standing at the other side of the screen that separates them. He sighs relief as he heard her emptying the content of the bucket all over her body. Few more moments pass before she appears at his side, walking straight to sit in front of her mirror, her long, wet hair sticking to her back – waiting.  

Jon understands what is expected of him. She is putting herself under his care. His heart swells with pride. He moves to stand behind her, picking up a fresh drying cloth as he attempts to dry her hair before combing through it.

A gentle knock stops him abruptly – a servant enters with a small tray, keeping her gaze onto the floor as she leaves after placing the tray on the table.

“Eat some Sansa. Five bites would suffice…” He dips the bread into the small pot of honey before he places it in her hand. She eats quietly leaving him to continue brushing her hair. Once done, she drinks her fill before she gets up and heads straight to her bed.  

Jon follows closely behind. He covers her body with her furs, promising to stay until she falls asleep. She turns to look at him, contemplating to speak something, anything.

Yet her lips remain locked.

Jon is staring at her, eyes filled with concern as if he too is waiting for the words that have refused to tumble down her lips. When enough time has passed, he exhales his breath slowly, raising his hands to cradle her face. Her breath hitches. His thumbs rubbing circle against her cheeks before he bends down, bringing his lips against her forehead.

A pause in the air.

A familiar knot returns to her guts.

She obliterates it away as quickly as it appears.

When he is sure she is deep in her sleep, he leaves her room, heading straight to his chamber to pick up his cloak. He needs a long walk to fully process what he has just learned the night before.

\---------------

Sansa finds him the next morning, kneeling in front of the heart tree. Praying. She keeps her mouth sealed. She may no longer believe but that doesn’t permit her to disrespect another’s connection to the old gods. She waits in silence, watching the back of him, still wearing the cloak she has made for him so many moons ago. He still has his hair partially pulled to a neat bun while the rest ringlets made rest against his neck offering extra warmth from the cold.

Jon finishes his prayer and stands up to address her presence. She nods at him, leading the way to the swing made for her. She sits down and Jon takes a place next to her. Jon wants to ask her about the structure, why she has it here. He had caught her reading quietly, enjoying the slow rhythm the swing could offer.

It is Sansa who speaks first, “You still keep faith? After everything?”

Jon thinks about all that he has gone through. From a bastard to a Lord Commander turns King in the North before it is elevated to the King of the Realms. From a bastard shunned in private to a rightful heir but most importantly, from Snow to Stark.

To have a family he belongs to, even when he ends up losing all of them.

To have someone he could love as deeply or even more so when he had once thought of love as once in a lifetime experience.

“Especially after everything.” He looks down and notices that she is without her gloves. He reaches out to have both in his hands before blowing hot air over them. Once satisfied, he keeps them on his lap before he continues. “When did you stop?”

“King’s Landing.” The blush on her cheeks matches the warmth emanating from her hands in his.

“You are far from home. Alone. The Old Gods would have understood.”

“They do. That’s why they won’t stop punishing me. First Father, then Robb…everyone.” She pulls her hands free from being cocooned by warmth, back to the unforgiving cold.  

He feels empty without her hands anchoring him, “Why do you think they are punishing you?” Trying to find roots to the underlying reason why she is overwhelmed by guilt.

“I was vain. I didn’t cherish what’s given to me until I lost them.” Jon covets a brief glance at her. She was young when she left Winterfell, thinking that the fate of her life is all set out in ways she would only receive good things, pretty dresses to wear, a crown to adorn her hair and approvals from all that will lay eyes on her. Years later she returns home, cold not from the weather but from the experience too jarring from what she has once dreamt of.

“Gods are what you perceived of them.  If you…if you think of gods as only punishers then you will feel punished for the rest of your life. But they are more than that. They are merciful. They are fair.”

She listens to him all while grating her bottom lip, wanting to taste blood especially after he tells her that gods are fair. She tastes blood – an offering to the gods she has long gone without.

“Fair?” her voice breaks.

_How could he say that? How could he believe that? Is this how he kept his sanity? Gods?_

Jon clicks his tongue disapprovingly at the sight of blood she has drawn from her chapped lips. He wipes it clean with his thumb, pressing gently against her lips. A whisper wash over her. Of words uttered with conviction meant to soothe her.  

“In ways, we mortals are not meant to understand.”

Silence.

“What you seek, I could not give.” It surprises her - such statement making an appearance out of nowhere, she couldn’t trace its beginning.   

“What is it that I am seeking?” she asks him to spell it out for her since he dares to believe he knows something about her that she has never admitted to anyone else.

“Forgiveness. I see the way you mourn them in silence. The way you punish yourself, having a statue made when you are still breathing. You feel guilty, because you are alive, and you think you don’t deserve to be.”

“Aren’t they all died because of me?” her hands grasping her dress tightly over her knees, bunching the material in her palms.

“No Sansa. That is so, very far from the truth. These things…they are complicated, but they are meant to happen. It doesn’t hinge on one decision. It happens.”

Sansa is adamant with her stand. Jon mutters in return,  

“What can I say to absolve you from that guilt?” he really wants to know how she plans to survive these guilts or perhaps she has never wished to survive it especially after what he has learned and witnessed the other day.

“Forgive me.” Two words that he knows instead of freeing her would condemn her further into the pit of guilt.  

“Forgive yourself Sansa.”

_Forgive myself? Is that an option? How arrogant is that notion? To sin and to forgive the sins committed without the involvement of higher power?_

As if he is listening to her thoughts, he continues to speak,

“If you think that’s not enough than beg for forgiveness from our old gods. Don’t wait for the dead to return and release you from your guilt because they couldn’t. Because none of them would have blamed you. It is never your fault.”

 “How about the Queen of Ashes? Daenerys Targaryen. Would she forgive me?” Sansa’s voice challenging him.

Jon’s reply misses not even beat. “Would Ramsay Bolton forgive you? Would Petyr Baelish forgive you?”

 _Some we must live with. Some we let go._ She begins to understand.  

“What can you give me then?”

“Comfort. A shoulder to cry on, hands to hold on. I couldn’t direct you to the quickest path of healing, but I can walk with you until you find it.”

_That is more than she dares to hope for._

Knowing that there is no more left to talk about, they stay still. Letting the rustle of the leaves and the ripples of the water in the pond fill the silence. Sansa pushes the swing with her feet, harder because of the extra weight it carries. Jon pushes gently against the floor too, letting the swing carry them both with its welcoming rhythm.

Sansa speaks more to herself, but Jon hears it clearly as if it is directed to him,

“We reclaim Winterfell for all the remaining, scattered Stark’s pups to return to. One broken, another comes back from death. One dies in the midst of reclaiming, the other dies in a place she despises. The crippled pup survived, only to return to die in his home, in his sister’s hands.”

“It will take time,” Jon assures her.

“We have time.” Sansa straightens her legs, eyes glued to their lengths, watching in fascination as the breezes from the swinging flutters her dress.

“We have each other.”  A promise said out loud with a gentle squeeze on her cold hand.

\-----------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. It is coming to an end. Tell me how you feel. :)


	15. Herringbone Stitch

_Herringbone Stitch_

Used as a decorative stitch or a finishing for hemming, the Herringbone stitch works across two parallel lines connecting them together.

\---------

Sansa begins by starting her day early, paying a visit to the weir wood tree. She will kneel and keep silent. Closing her eyes to invite clarity and calmness. It feels empty at first. A mere ritual without meaning. Gradually, days and nights passed and some hope blooms back, daring herself to raise her hands and pray, seeking for forgiveness.

Jon always watches from afar. Keeping his distance while still honoring his promise to be by her side.  But there are days he could not compel this urge to kneel next to her. His steps are always loud, purposely done so. Long he has learned that Sansa hates to be caught unaware of anyone’s presence.

If his gait catches her attention she never let it be known verbally. She remains locked in her prayers and Jon will mirror her position.

One prays to be forgiven, the other prays for their union.

\----------

The changes are subtle, but they happen slowly, consistently in the coming weeks, made observable to keen eyes. Tyrion notices it. Jon more so. In fact, the whole castle roots for her to heal. It’s not apparent from the way she dresses but in the way, her back seems straighter nowadays, as if something heavy has been lifted from her shoulder. People dare themselves to offer warmer, lingering smiles whenever they manage to catch her attention. Children are bolder. The younger the more so. A peck on her cheeks whenever they got the chance. They sing more and more, filling the castle with shrill attempts to reach the high notes inviting everyone to hum along with them.

Lady Sansa included.

Even she herself notices it. The shift of mood. As if a thick layer of fog has been lifted from the castle and suddenly everyone can see clearer and they cheer for that.

\----------

In favor of her healing journey, Jon has gifted her a huge chest box containing beautiful fabrics with splendid colors – from Northern colors to Southern colors so vivid that she simply couldn’t resist but sigh as she runs her fingers over it. The chest is sent to her room, just before she prepares herself to settle for the night. As she digs further, marveling over each piece she fishes out from the chest, she discovers jars upon jars of beads and pearls too - all things needed to make herself beautiful dresses.

But she only has one dress in her mind.

She quickly scours through the myriad of options, finding the right shade.  

She begins to stitch again. Something simple. A handkerchief with roses adorning its edges. It is quite rough at first – a year of refusal to hold her needle has made her fingers stiff. But she keeps on practicing. Small motives ranging from flowers wreath to weir wood tree with its many leaves, of the sky with its stunning fluffy clouds. All done to remind herself what she is capable of with her hands before she embarks on a bigger project, one she has promised long ago before he left South.

A dress of lightest shade of blue with silver trimmings.

But that could wait. She would want to work on his cloak first.

\------------

In one of the many days she has spent praying, while Jon is still deep into his prayer she has come closer to his side, taking in the odd patches appearing on the strap of his cloak. Jon finishes his prayer and turns facing her. She leans closer to his chest, wanting to have a clearer view of it as she hooks her fingers under the strap, her thumb rubbing the patches.

Jon is too still, holding his breath at such proximity. The things he wants to do to her…only kept at bay because he thinks it is much too soon to court her the way she deserves to be courted. He has watched her smile more and more, no longer numbered or rationed. The kind of smile that is sincere. The kind of smile that makes him wants to pull her to his chest and worship her.

But he has promised himself to let her heal first.

That is his priority.

But it is so hard now that he has seen her with that beautiful, guilt-free smiles.

“The leather has worn out. Did you keep it under direct sunlight? It weathers out much faster if not cared for properly.” She presses her fingers against his chest, rubbing the strap unnecessarily.

Jon wonders if she is teasing him or if he is reading too much into it.

“It weathers out much faster if you keep it on most of the time too.”  It is true. He has worn it everywhere, a piece of her that he keeps close, wrapping his body with the kind of warmth only she could offer.

There goes the smile again. She looks very pleased to learn that the cloak has been put to good use.

“Do you mind if I make you a new one?” her offer brings unparallel joy to him.

_She’s stitching again._

“I wouldn’t mind that in the slightest.” He fishes a piece of cloth from his waist, holding it out to her.

“Will you press this onto the leather strap?” Sansa takes the piece of cloth from his hand. A gasp escapes her lips. It is the piece she has made for herself, of Lady under Rhaegal’s wings.

_Thief._

“How long have you kept that Your Grace?” A coy smile, a blush, a whisper of longing.

 _Ah, she still hasn’t called me by name._ _Perhaps_ s _he needs more time._

“I’ve kept it for quite a while now.” He wants so much to tell her that he loves her. If his intention is not quite clear he would gladly scale the wall and screams it from the top, but he is waiting for a sign from her.

A sign that she is ready to name what they are to one another.

But she keeps quiet, folding the piece neatly all while promising she would work on it soon.

Jon groans in desperation all while wishing that he could muster a greater sense of control.

_Patience. She needs you to be patient._

\-----------

Everyone gathers in the hall every time for meals. Children, lords, maidservants all sharing the same food, same drinks passed around for all to have a taste. In here one’s position matters so little. The smell of roast chickens entices everyone, coupled with fresh loaves of bread and soup enough to awaken everyone’s appetite – Sansa’s included.

She has shed her cloak for a while now. Before the hall is prepared for mealtime, children have gathered in there following her teaching in etiquettes. Most squirm throughout the lesson, they are staying for what comes after, the stories and if they are lucky, few of them who are blessed with talents will whip out their equipment and play while others beg for Lady Sansa to sing. It is a very rare treat, dole out sparingly but one that would delight most, even the young crying babes.

Lady Sansa has begun to smile freely now, and the smiles reach her eyes. Finally.

Now, food is served, everyone is counted for and they dig in. Sansa has chosen to sit far from the main table not to avoid Jon or other lords, simply because it has been a long day. She is famished and would love to really eat until she is full without having to spare attention to the lords’ requests that seem to see no end. But it remains a dream. The moment Jon spots her, naturally he takes the space next to her and Tyrion sits to her left and other lords join in, filling the table with the same faces she would have seen at the main table.

She sighs audibly. She should have sat with the children.

Not because she wants to devour her share. No. if she is being honest to herself, recently she has begun to notice that Jon’s constant presence make her want so much more than just a shared conversation.

It is unsettling for her.

She is not quite sure how to deal with it.

She thought distance might offer some clarity.

They eat their fill, Sansa, too. Jon is too deep in the conversation he is sharing with the maester, managing very few bites in between. He notices how quick she cleans her plate and deftly he trades his still full plate with hers.

Sansa sends him a surprising look. Shock to say the least with his doing.  Jon simply replies to it with a wink and a very contagious smile she couldn’t resist.

Her heart skips a beat.

There goes the same wild purr of pleasure springing from within whenever Jon looks at her and that wink sends her to the edge.

That very sincere smile filled with pure joy is a sight to behold, forcing her to look down at her plate, suddenly noticing the beautiful coloring on the chicken’s crispy skin as she hastily tries to calm her rapid heartbeats.

She is waiting for a sign from him.

She wonders if the image he wants press onto his leather strap is a clear sign she has ignored due to lack of faith.

_This is hard. And confusing._

She breaks a piece of bread before shoving it into her mouth.

\------------

Tyrion has been seething as he watches the slow progress between the two. Their stolen glances, the sharp draws of breaths whenever one comes too close, the hovering hands wanting so much to touch but gods know what holding them both back. At this rate, he dares to wager the whole castle is demanding to see progress.

_For fuck sake do I have to interfere? Really?_

He excuses himself for a moment, his pace frenzied as he tries to identify the young lads he has sworn to be musicians. Not as good as what they used to have but anything can do really at this point.

They are sitting together the lot of them, exchanging stories when he comes nearer. He beckons for them to lean closer, hatching a plan to assist the poor lost love birds back together.

When he returns to his seating, a melodious sound fills the hall.

“Ahhh, music. What would be great to go with it? People dancing. Your Grace? Lady Sansa?” Tyrion raises his eyebrows, capturing the king’s attention, urging Jon to take the lead.

Sansa is already shaking her head no when Jon offers his hand to her. She is taken aback. She knows Jon. Jon hates dancing and each time septa tried to teach them, he would either sulk or simply left.

Tonight, he seems to be different.

Curiosity peaks and she places her hand gingerly over his, agreeing to the offer. He whirls her to the empty space as people clap their hands enthusiastically. He seems very at ease and Sansa couldn’t help but wonder what stem this level of confidence within him. He places one hand over her waist, pulling her closer but not flushed against his body while the other rest against his back. They sway with the music, a slight left before the other, transferring their weight from one heel to the other lightly.

“You are better than I remember. Dare I say you look like you enjoy it.” Sansa teases him.

He spins her around before pulling her back to him, “Being a king requires so much. It makes me regret skipping lessons.”

They each raise one hand against one another, touching slightly as they move with the music. Jon takes it a little further, caressing the length of her arm before placing their palms together, sending a shiver down her spine. Sansa bits her lower lip, wondering if it is done on purpose.

“Have you been dancing with others? I heard women from Dorne are very adept in seducing men through their dance.”

Jon couldn’t stop himself from grinning.

“Is that jealousy I sense from you?” he pulls her flush against his chest. One hand splayed at her back, the other grasping her dainty long fingers.

 She is flustered. From the sudden pull or his question, she could not be sure of.

“Why would I harbor jealousy? You are a King. The time will come when you will have to find your Queen.” The insincerity in her tone only invites chuckles from Jon as they move in a circle. All eyes are trained on them. He manages to catch a look of approvals from a few lords, one of them is Tyrion himself.

They continue to sway with the music, not wanting it to ever end. He spins her one more time, her hands dragging along the length of her body before he lifts her up momentarily. Sansa looks flushed with surprise, her hands gripping his shoulder as he pulls her to his side, his fingers neatly spread against her waist as he shares a whisper right next to her ears.

“Nothing to fear love. I train with Ser Davos, or Varys, at times, Podrick. With Tyrion nagging my brute steps. And Ser Brienne snickering behind me. Nothing romantic of the sort.”

He could see her grinning, the scowl of her jealousy gone.

Too soon the music has ended, turning into a much familiar tempo that invites others to join in.

Sansa is beaming from the dance and Jon feels a very intense desire to dance a different dance with her.

\------------

Jon walks beside her as she makes her way back to her chamber, draping his cloak over his arm the same way Sansa is carrying hers. They walk in silence, pleased with just each other’s presence.

“It was a crude joke wasn’t it?” Sansa is referring to Tyrion’s joke he has shared just now with the rest of the table. About him entering a brothel with a jackass and honeycombs. The whole table has roared with laughter and Sansa laughed too, trying to cover hers under the impression of sipping her wine but Jon saw through it.

“It made you laugh. I like it when you laugh.” Jon admits reservedly.

Sansa could only swallow her feelings. Jon has been very…generous with kisses on her forehead and hand-holding. Looking back, he has seen too much already. That alone would have sent her mind reeling whenever she revisits the memories. And the dance they have just shared. Sansa is swooning still from it. But Jon never presses for more and as she begins healing, different kind of hunger has begun to awaken from their deep slumber and Sansa is not too sure how to deal with those.

She never experiences that kind of hunger before. Sure, Margaery made a point about it. Her septa talked about it as a wife’s duty which she had unwillingly carried out for that beast.

She never likes it.

She loathes it.  

But now that the want has come from her own core, she is not quite sure how to deal with it.

It could be the extra amount of wine she allows herself to during the meal, her mind creating excuses. But she really, really wants to taste that lips one more time. Just to be sure.  

She loves Jon, that much she is certain of, but their relationship has never been named and she for one has never expected it to grow. She has, at one time already making peace to see him in another woman’s embrace.  

Now he’s here. And he had called her _love_ just now.

_When he said we have each other, how does that work in actuality?_

She ponders all the way back to her chamber, not once considering clarifying it with Jon himself.

\-----------

Jon bids her goodnight and leaves. It only takes him three steps away from her chamber before he groans loudly, turns back, rapping his knuckle urgently against the door.  He couldn’t hold it in much longer. He feels he is bursting with desire and at the very least, he must make it clear to her that he loves her.

Whether or not she returns it, that is something he just must live with.

Tonight, she has to know.

“Who is it?” She stands up, her hair is already unbound from the knot, cascading behind her as she moves to see this surprise visitor. She opens the door partly, just enough to see who it is. Upon learning it is him, she pulls it wider, yet Jon places his hand on the door firmly, holding it, as if stopping himself from forcing his way into her chamber.

Sansa is surprised to see him back so soon. She has readied herself to receive a chaste goodnight kiss before she closes the door then, separating them, but Jon’s mind seems occupied. To see him here, with expression perturbed, she pulls it a tad wider despite his hold. 

“What is the matter, Your Grace?” Jon looks as if he is in pain and it worries her.

“I want to kiss you Sansa. I want to kiss your lips hard. I want to remember the kisses we shared before. I want you.”

Her cheeks redden as she listens. His words are bold, his eyes wild with desire yet his grip on the door becomes firmer, stopping himself from doing what he has told her.

“What stopping you…?”

“I want to do it right. I want to marry you in front of all the lords and ladies, everyone so no one can doubt the legitimacy of our union. I want to bed you slowly after but with enough passion it will burn the sheets. I want you to moan my name, my real name given to me here. Not Aegon. I want you. I want to love you.”

“Will you please let me love you Sansa? Will you allow me that much?”

The onslaught of confessions catches her off guard, but she pulls herself together to take it all – the words, his desperation when he said them, his pained expression as if he couldn’t hold it back any longer.

_Isn’t it all too familiar? For what he harbors resonates with all that she has kept for so long._

She places her hand covering his before she murmurs, “I want to kiss you too.” Her heart is hammering against her ribs as she raises her gaze towards him, taking in the deep lines on his forehead as he waits for her to speak. His lips quiver and she wants so much to still it against hers. 

“I want to love you too.” Sansa seeks his free hand, pulling it towards her, placing it against her neck. The rise and fall of her chest apparent - they mirror his own pining.

“Truly?” He wants to be certain; he too is struggling to keep his breaths steady.

“Desperately.” She whispers back, pulling him into her chamber, sealing her confession with a kiss so searing, branding him as hers and hers only.  

\-------------

_THE END_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Reading. 
> 
> I leave it open-ended of the sort because everyone has their own version of the one happy ending inside their mind. Each is different and unique and I can't challenge that dream we keep to ourselves, of the ending we thought our otp deserves. 
> 
> It can never be good enough. 
> 
> But what I can do is leave enough hints that could lead all of us to that happy ending inside our head.
> 
> Thank you for staying to the end. I wish I can hit 10k but this is more than what I expect when I first started writing this piece. Thank you for the support, kind feedback, and comments that help me a lot when I have doubts. Leave comments, tell me why you love this story and maybe if our interest crosses the same path, maybe I will write more.
> 
> Thank you, my dearest readers.


	16. Yarn Twist

_Yarn twist._

_A spiral arrangement of the fibers around the axis of the yarn. The twist binds the fibers together and also contributes to the strength of the yarn._

_\-----_

Two weeks.

Two weeks after the passionate kisses that almost, tethering on both losing their restraints if they had any left after all those caresses and gentle strokes. Her lips pursed as she stifles the longing - Jon wants to do it right; and by gods, she wants to know how it feels to be treated right. But that couldn’t stop her from remembering, as she attaches the clasp she had made for her cloak, that shares the same design as the one she had pressed onto his.

_Perfection._

A simple white hooded cloak laid on her bed next to the promised dress - to offer her extra warmth since the dress meant for Jon’s eyes is not suitable for the cold in the North. She wants something light, and breezy and heavy materials meant for sturdy; functional Northern clothing wouldn’t make the cut. She looks out from the window and realizes it is almost time for their morning prayer.

She cleanses herself, readying her soul and body to be his. She slips into what she meant to be a dress that brings a new beginning to them both, redefining what they are to one another. A blue dress with a neckline that dips a bit further than her usual cut. Its sleeves stop at a three-quarters length of her arms and its bodice splashed with laces, sprinkled with muted beading that offers just enough shimmering – nothing too blinding framed with a plait of blue and silver ribbons around her waist before the skirt flares to the floor. She has thoughts about pulling her hair into a much intricate design but in the end, she settles with none – just a splash of fragrant oil massaged deep into the roots before she brushes them to the point they shine, like fire refusing to die in winter.

The cloak clasped firmly; its length covers the blue well. She picks his cloak, draping over her free arm before she opens the door, ready to embark on a new journey. She draws in a long breath, the cold slithers inside before settling in her lungs. Few steps ahead before a voice calls her from behind.

She turns and sees Tyrion, holding a book. He must have spent hours in the Stark’s library. Sansa offers him her warmest smile with a tinge of redness made apparent for being caught while she is so heightened by the love she meant to give all to Jon.

Tyrion eyes her avidly, noticing the buoyancy in her steps, her exquisite dress he has no doubts is her own doing. Something special has been planned and her giddiness is obvious. It is foreign to him. It is almost he is looking back at the child he is familiar with in King’s Landing but instead of being somber, she is spilling pure joy.

“Happiness suits you, Sansa.” He couldn’t resist a smile. It is contagious the mood she is in.

“Is he aware of your plan?” He assumes something is brewing, not that he is sure what it is.

“I doubt it Tyrion. He wants something else. But I want it to be just between us two.”

 _A wedding then,_ he muses to himself. He closes the distance between them and places the book he is holding on the floor, wanting to grasp her hands in his. His eyes filled with sincerity as he offers her a wedding wish,

“May you be blessed with thorough happiness so intense you couldn’t help but smile each day. You of all people deserve it.” A squeeze on each hand, meaning each word.  

Sansa kneels, looking at him straight in the eyes, “Thank you Tyrion. Thank you for offering nothing but kindness since the beginning.”

Their smiles carry so much more unspeakable things that words are not enough to cover. They have seen each other’s pain, not all but enough to know that yes, they each deserve happiness the world could offer.

“Go on then. Go on before I bawl my eyes out. My wife is getting married. I am so happy.”

She allows a peal of laughter to ring across the deserted aisle before she slaps his arm lightly.

“Is that supposed to be a blessing my lord?”

“Not that you need any, Stark.”

\----------------

She finds him already kneeling in front of the heart tree and suddenly she feels a sudden lurch in her chest. Something about the sight of him, makes her heart expands so much as if the love she is harboring for him is not enough thus it swells and swells until it fills every vein within.

She comes closer, knowing that he could always tell even when she has tried her best to tread gently on the soft snow. He is still deep in his prayer, so she kneels next to him, waiting.

Once he concludes his connection to the old gods, he raises his head and the first thing he takes in is how much she simply glows. There is this unexplained brightness in her eyes, her cheeks flushed, and her lips curved into a permanent smile.

She raises her arms, showing him a new cloak, she has made for him, “May I?” she insists on having his permission to begin.

He nods, not knowing what she has planned. Her hands snake around him, unclasping the cloak free and pulling it off from his shoulder. She folds it neatly, putting it away before she places the new one over the frame of his body, wounding her arms around him as she clasps it at the back. He looks down, noticing the length of her eyelashes and simply stares, captivated. She looks up, catches him staring and he smiles bashfully.

“You are glowing today Sansa. I couldn’t resist.” He lifts his hand, caressing her cheek before it travels to the edge of her lips.

Sansa presses her hand onto his chest, feeling the thunderous beat hidden behind his layers.

“I know this is not how you plan it, but I want this for us. Will you forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive my love. What is it?”

Sansa stands up, extending her hands; an invitation for him to rise with her. He agrees, still clueless as they stand next to one another, facing the sacred tree. He sees a glimpse of blue and he is immediately reminded by her promise.

“You are wearing blue.”

“For you. For us.”

It clicks. Her hair finally let down, blue dress, new cloak, one for him and one for her. His eyes widen as he realizes she has just cloaked him.

“Are you sure?” He breathes out, exhilarated.

“Very.”

She rubs her thumbs against his hands, basking in his warmth before she closes her eyes and drawing a deep breath to calm herself. She wants to speak clearly, sincerely so that each word brand them permanently as one. He is calm, following her wish.

 “Father, Mother, Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon.  I am Jon’s and he is mine from this day until the end of my days.”

She purses her lips, lightheaded as she takes in Jon’s earnest stare. When he looks at her, it feels as if he is anchoring her to the ground. The only constant she could rely on.

_When you’re old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who’s worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong._

_I’ve found him, Father. Someone brave and gentle and strong._

Jon exhales slowly, listening to her simple vow with only their family as witnesses. He wants to woo her with beautiful strings of words, vows that would be turned to ballad, sung by millions even when they are here no more but he couldn’t. He is rough and brute and many other things except a poet. He settles with one he is familiar with. One he has paid for with his life. A vow he has never broken yet he is now released from.

“Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take her as my wife, hold no others. I shall wear my crowns and crown her as mine. I shall live and die as hers truly. I pledge my life and honor to Sansa House of Stark, for this night and all the nights to come.”

Tears welled up as they seal their vows with a tender kiss.

\------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so very sorry I simply couldn't help it.

**Author's Note:**

> I start reading a few fanfics shipping them and I could not stop myself from shipping them together too.


End file.
